


Contrition

by AeschylusRex



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeschylusRex/pseuds/AeschylusRex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy is sick, five young slayers are dead, and fanatical, cultish vampires roam the frozen streets of Cleveland. With his troops stretched thin, Giles is forced to call in reinforcements, but Buffy isn't particularly happy to see Faith state-side again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome (Back) to Cleveland

**Author's Note:**

> What's up, what's up, my Fuffy friends???
> 
> This was my very first fanfiction story! I never thought I'd be moonlighting as a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fanfiction writer on an internet forum, but now that I'm here I'm enjoying myself entirely too much to quit! 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Enjoy~

It was late when she arrived, a dark, slouched figure climbing up off the frigid, windswept streets, nodding curtly to Dawn at the front door. The house was an old, remodeled Cleveland double, two and a half stories with a broad, shallow porch and low roof supported by stubby columns. A half-level stone facade wrapped around its base, and the plain wood siding was painted an ash grey color with white trim. Faith kicked the snow off her boots as she tromped over the threshold, closing the heavy, red door behind her. A wood fire flickered in the front room on the left, where her keen gaze immediately spied a small, familiar body, curled up asleep at the far end of an oversized sectional couch. Blonde hair spilled out beneath a purple quilt, strewn across the cushion in a tangle of gold. A pale hand clutched a ragged stuffed pig. Faith’s breath caught in her throat. She attributed the sudden tightness in her chest to the dramatic change in temperature, but she still had to peel her eyes away when it became too painful to look. Across from the couch, a movie played quietly on the television. Light and color flashed from the screen, illuminating the furniture, the pictures on the walls, built-in bookshelves crammed with grotty, yellowing tomes, ceramic urns, and jars of dried herbs. Blinking wearily, Faith glanced down at her boots, noting the puddles forming around them. She stepped back onto the welcome mat. The floors were original hardwood, made of wide oak planks that creaked underfoot, and the rooms were lined, top and bottom, with elegant, white moulding. Even the square, paned windows along the front of the house held an antiquated appeal. It was a nice place.

Willow and Dawn materialized from a doorway on the right as Faith dropped her duffle bag in the entry, twin flashes of red and auburn hair a stark contrast against their porcelain skin, like berries in the snow. It was winter in the States and they had already lost their summer glow. Faith removed her gloves and stared at the tops of her suntanned fingers.

“You’re here,”  Willow murmured.

Brown eyes flicked up cautiously. “Yeah. You rang.”

“Yes, but you’re actually here,” Willow said again, with more emphasis.

The slayer turned away and began to pull off her boots. “Nice to see you again, Red.”

“It’s been a while,” the witch remarked crisply.

“So, it has.” Faith jerked her laces a little harder than necessary.

“Oh, Faith! That is you!” Giles said, a bit too brightly, emerging from the same doorway in a wooly grey bathrobe. “I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

The dark slayer regarded them all with suspicion. “Why is everyone so surprised to see me?”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Well, you’ve been on a South Pacific tropical island vacation for how many years now? Cleveland isn’t exactly exotic.”

“We didn’t think that you would come,” Giles clarified, shifting uncomfortably.

Faith tugged off her beanie and brushed a lock of hair out of her sunburned face. “If you didn’t think I would come, why bother asking?”

"They're desperate," Dawn said drily, examining her nails.

"We're not desperate," Willow flushed. She turned to Faith. "We're not desperate."

Dawn shrugged and wandered over to the living room, plopping down beside her slumbering sister on the couch. She was taller, and lankier than she had been in Sunnydale. Her face had lost most of its roundness and innocence, but her loyal, devotional nature had not changed a bit. Dawn pulled her legs up against her chest and and laid her hand on Buffy’s calf. The elder Summers did not stir

"How is she?" Faith asked carefully, expression withdraw and unreadable.

Giles shook his head and beckoned them through the doorway on the right. Faith left her things at the door and followed them into a neat little dining room with a large window and a six-seater table. Willow pulled up a chair across from Faith, pulling her red cardigan tighter around her shoulders. In the warm light the circles beneath her eyes seemed heavy and dark. Her bright red hair seemed limp. Even the pallor of her skin seemed grey. Giles busied himself making tea in the adjacent kitchen, filling a kettle with water and setting it on the stove. Nobody spoke. Willow stared at the table top, and Faith squirmed in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position. The watcher returned to the table several minutes later carrying three porcelain mugs and a plate of gingersnaps. Faith waited until everyone had fixed their drinks with the preferred amounts of milk and sugar before daring to speak again.

"How is she?"

"Not well," the watcher admitted, and Willow’s focus on the table intensified. "She's sick and exhausted, and completely discouraged."

Faith chewed her lip. "Worse than the First?"

"Yes," he sighed. “About that bad.”

Willow nodded morosely. “Probably worse.”

“Yes, yes. You may be right.”  

"Guys," Faith glanced sharply between them, "what the fuck is going on?"

With a heavy sigh, Giles removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Kennedy found the entrance to a tunnel on patrol one night about three weeks ago. It was located under a dumpster behind a bar that is rather notorious for attracting demonic customers. None of us had any idea where it led or who had built it, so Buffy took a team with her to gather intelligence." He paused.

"What did they find?"

"The tunnels led to a super portal."

"Where?"

"In a cavern under Monroe Cemetery."

"And?"

Willow glanced furtively at Giles, who seemed either unwilling or unable to speak, before venturing a quiet response. "Buffy turned up three days later in the hospital with severe dehydration and some cuts and bruises. The others never made it home."

Faith was accustomed to casualties and death, but the grief-stricken expression on the witch’s face unnerved her. She twisted a plain silver ring around her index finger and sat in silence with the others for a moment.

"All we know is what Buffy could tell us," Willow continued at length, "And she was completely unwilling talk about it at first. I had to use some spells…” she drifted off, eyes glazing over for a moment. ‘The slayers were taken and used for rituals to open the portal."  

"By who?"

"We don't know. Buffy called him ‘the Dreamcatcher’, but she doesn’t remember very much."

“Is he a vampire…?” Faith asked, glancing between them for some kind of clarification. “Or something else…?”

The watcher cleared his throat. "I found some records at headquarters in London of a man who was called the Dreamcatcher, but for all of our sakes I hope that Buffy found something else."

The slayer pursed her lips. “Ominous, G.”

Giles gripped his mug. "He was a convicted murdered incarcerated in London during the mid 18th century. A cult of warlocks kidnapped him on his scheduled execution date and performed a spell nearly identical to the one used to create the first slayer. They were trying to imbue him with the spirit of a hell god, to fashion him into a creature they called the 'anti-slayer'. Naturally, of course, the ritual didn't work quite the way they had planned it. The man's soul was a poor match for the hell god's essence, and they were left with an immensely powerful, psychologically fractured abomination that answered to no one and killed indiscriminately.” The watcher sighed. “They imprisoned him in a hell dimension, and, well, if Buffy’s memory is to be trusted, it seems that the vampires who captured them used Anna and Hilla’s blood to summon him through the portal."

“The other slayers.”

“Yes, sorry.”

Faith considered this. “How did Buffy escape?”

“Sheer luck, really.” He glanced over at Willow, who nodded in agreement. “The cultists had saved her as a meal for their new master, anticipating that he would be hungry when he emerged from the portal. Evidently, this Dreamcatcher fellow can feed on human flesh. Fortunately for Buffy, however, when he exited the portal he flew into a rage and began attacking the vampire cultists. It is common for demons trapped in hell dimensions to develop feral, animalistic qualities.”

Faith shrugged in agreement. They all remembered Angelus.

Giles straightened his spectacles. “In the midst of all the chaos, the cavern wall, to which Buffy was shackled, cracked. She was able to rip the chains free and escape through the tunnels unnoticed, but she was delirious when she reached the surface, and wandered into the middle of a busy street, where she was nearly struck by a passing car.”

“And that’s how she ended up in the hospital,” Willow finished, gesturing heavily toward the sitting room behind her.

Faith chewed on her lip for a moment. "Did this...Dreamcatcher guy, have a name? You know, before he was a demon freak?"

"Christopher Price. Although, after centuries of torture in a hell dimension, I'm not sure that he would answer to it anymore."

"Price?" The slayer frowned, and glanced at the window. "I was expecting something that sounded a little more evil."

"The name ‘Faith’ doesn’t exactly register on the chart of evilness, either,” Willow said snidely from across the table.

Faith curled her lip. "You know, Red, I’ve always wondered, on a scale of one to ten, how satisfying is it to skin people alive?"

Willow glowered and looked away.

“Moving on,” Faith tapped her fingers on the tabletop restlessly, “do we know what kinds of plans these assholes have for the thriving metropolis of Cleveland?”

Giles offered her a wan smile. “To put these people out of their misery, perhaps.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“I advise you not to stop in east Cleveland for any reason.”

“That includes traffic signs,” Willow supplied quietly.

“Okay,” Faith drawled, “so, in other words, we have a group of cultist vampire on the loose, and no idea why they’re here or what they’re up to, except that they are capable of taking out several slayers at a time. And all of this without the help of a psychotic hell god trapped in the body of an 18th century murderer who may or may not actually answer to them, and who might be out there causing chaotic evil as we speak. Did I miss anything?”

“Well, the homicide rate has risen significantly these past couple weeks.” Giles rubbed his temples wearily, looking for all the world like he need a long vacation. “That and arson.”

“Super,” Faith grumbled. She leaned back in the creaky wooden chair and crossed her arms. "Where's Kennedy?”

"Out on patrol,” Willow replied nervously, checking her watch. "She'll be back in an hour."

"Who else is stationed here besides Ken and Buffy?"

"Just the two of them,” Giles replied. “We haven’t sent for reinforcements."

“Aside from me?”

“Aside from you.”

"There's another witch staying with us," Willow interjected. "She's helping me out with the magic stuff, but it's too risky to keep young, inexperienced slayers around. These cultists like to play with their food."

“We’re afraid they’ll try to open the portal again” the watcher added, stroking the short, silver beard growing in around his chin. “Maybe bring something else through, something worse. As it is, we’re having enough trouble containing the current outbreak. The Cleveland PD are trying to keep it under wraps, but a team of FBI agents arrived in town yesterday. The commissioner isn’t taking any chances.”

Fantastic.” Faith grimaced. “Everyone from here to Cincinnati will be a blind panic by next week.”

“Who says they aren’t already?”

“Gas prices are going up,” Willow said, surreptitiously checking the front window again. “Whenever there’s a magical disturbance of this magnitude people can feel it, and they get nervous.”

“I don’t blame them,” Faith muttered, leaning back in her chair. “So… what am I doing here?”

The watcher adjusted his glasses. “Beg your pardon?”

“I know I’m a veteran, G, but why not call Vi or Rhona? They’re both in New York. I had to catch a 16 hour flight from Singapore just to get here.”

“Ah, well, you see,” he busied himself adjusting his robe and kept his eyes down, “none of the other cells can spare a veteran at the moment, and you had just finished up another assignment, so you seemed like the most obvious choice.”

“If you say so…”

Faith drummed her fingers on the table and glanced around the room, wrestling with a distinct, unsettling feeling that they were keeping something from her, something important. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject tactfully. They both seemed so brittle, like they were made of glass, like the First was back in town again, and she was back in Joyce’s old home on Revello Drive, trying not to step on Buffy’s toes while she did whatever she could to hold them all together.

Light flickering from the television in the front room caught her eye, reminding her of something the watcher had mentioned on the phone. “What exactly is wrong with Buffy?”

Giles and Willow exchanged nervous glances. Bingo.

"We don't know," the watcher said at last, fidgeting with his glasses again, seeming suddenly very thin and worn beyond his years. "Slayers aren't technically supposed to get sick."

"Which is to say, we've never heard of one getting sick," Willow added quietly, "but that doesn't mean they can't. Our experience with slayer physiology is kind of limited."

“We’ve just never seen a case like this before.”

“And my spells aren’t helping.” The witch withdrew into her head for a moment, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth. “Yes, I’ve tried everything I can think of… It’s just a virus, but…”

“Nothing is working,” the watcher echoed.

Faith held up a hand, and they both stopped to look at her. "Guys, what’s wrong with her?"

They both stared at her, blinking.

“Guys?”

“She um… She has pneumonia.” Willow’s said, voice dwindling to a grudging murmur.

“Pneumonia?” the dark slayer was truly baffled. “That’s it? Shouldn’t the slayer healing kick in?”

“Obviously, it hasn’t,” the witch scoffed, “or you wouldn’t be here.”

“So happy to help,” Faith retorted drily. “It is mystical or something?”

"We ruled that out right away,” Giles massaged his shoulder. “The doctors diagnosed her with pneumonia, and I think she actually has pneumonia."

The slayer shrugged. “Okay, well, shit. I guess stranger things have happened.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Nothing phases you, does it?”

Her eyes flicked back to the exasperated witch, narrowing imperceptibly. “If you don’t want me here, just say so. You can find somebody else.”

“I just need to know,” Willow pressed, displaying the same vein of bright, volatile aggression that Faith had first seen in her years ago, after she returned to Sunnydale from prison, “I need to know if you care. Do you actually give a shit about this?”

“I give a shit,” the brunette growled. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

Willow frowned and waved her arm. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s impossible to tell with you. You always seem like you could honestly care less whether you’re working for a snake demon or helping us out, so long as you ‘get some and get gone’, or whatever the hell you say.”

Faith leaned forward over the table. “None of the others wanted to come, did they? No one else wants to deal with stressed out, stick-up-her-ass Buffy and a hell god that eats slayers, but you knew I would get on a plane, no questions asked. That’s why I’m here, right?”

The irked glare on Willow’s face as good as answered the question.

Giles stood suddenly and began collecting their mugs. “You must be exhausted, Faith.”

She glanced at him sharply, and reined herself in. Her shoulders dropped and she sat back in her chair, turning away from the irritated little witch.

“Would you like to get some sleep and discuss the rest of this tomorrow?”

“God, yes.” Faith cracked her neck.

“We’ve set up a cot for you in the study,” he said briskly. “I’ll give you the tour.”

Faith helped him gather up the rest of the dishes and returned to the dining room to find that Willow had disappeared. She heard the creak of light feet on the stairs, and the click of a bedroom door. The fiery witch was gone to wait for Kennedy to return from patrol. As Faith retrieved her bag from the entryway she cast a long, appraising look at Buffy, curled up on the couch next to her sister. She had shifted in her sleep, pressing closer to the wiry teenager for warmth. The ghost of a smile pass across the slayer’s lips before she turned to follow the watcher down the hall.

They passed the staircase and a powder room on the left before he turned and pushed through a set double French doors. Inside there was a small study with a simple wooden desk, rolling chair, and desktop computer. More built-in shelves lined the walls, crammed, once again, with books and artifacts. A spiraling ram’s horn occupied a sizeable portion of the top shelf behind the desk. Giles switched on the old green banker’s lamp, illuminating the room with soft, light.

“You’ll be in here,” he said.

Faith dropped her bag next to the door and shoved her hands in her pockets. “Sweet.”

“They put guests in here all the time, so they finally installed some curtains.” He shuffled around to the window and pulled them closed. “You’ll be able to sleep during the day.”

She nodded and leaned up against the desk. “Nice.”

Out of things to busy himself with, the watcher turned to look at her fully. His eyes swept across her frame with parental concerned, taking stock. She resisted the urge to squirm like a child. He had grown much older, she realized. The hair on his head was streaked with grey, his beard now almost silver. The years of stress and worry had taken their toll. He seemed tired now, but tough, grizzled, hardened by the near constant war, by his acrimonious takeover of the Watcher’s Council and leadership of the slayer organization.

“You look well,” he said, nodding to himself.

“Uh, thanks.” Faith gestured loosely at his hair. “You look, um, old.”

He smirked, showing for just a second, a side of himself that they hadn’t often seen as teenagers, the wry, clever Englishman. It was easy to forget that he was brilliant when he was the acting parental figure for a household of stressed out young girls.

“I think I’m allowed to be old, at this point.” He breathed deeply. “I feel it.”

Faith sighed. “It’s good to see you again.”

He gave her a gentle smile. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“Is this gonna be a shit show?” she asked honestly.

He cocked his head to the side. “Hm, I don’t think so.”

“They don’t like it when I’m here.”

“They aren’t used to having you around.”

“Why did you really ask me to come here, G?” She ran her fingers through her hair, eyes darting to her feet. “There’s a ton of other girls nearby.”

“That’s true,” he nodded absently, eyes narrowed in thought, “but, they aren’t you.”

“What’s that mean?”

He snorted, amused, as always, by her directness. “It means, as Dawn would say, that you are a ‘special snowflake’.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Don’t fuck with me right now, G. I’m really tired.”

He smiled cryptically. “It means that I’ve been asking you to return from Southeast Asia for years with no luck, and finally realized that if you wouldn’t do it for me, you might do it for Buffy.” He paused, eyes sparkling mischievously. “It appears I was right.”

Faith flushed so violently that the tips of her ears turned red. “I have debts to repay,” she explained softly.

“Those debts have long since been repaid.” Giles nodded once to himself and moved for the door, touching her arm as he passed. “Live your life, Faith.” His eyes found hers. “You’ve redeemed yourself enough. I trust you implicitly.”

Faith gaped at him. “I...okay.”

He reached for the doorknob and glanced back. “Sleep well. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay, um… goodnight.”

"Goodnight."

 


	2. Monthly Punch Date

Since her return from the hospital, Buffy had been lucky to catch a full night’s rest. In fact, she had been lucky to string several consecutive hours of rest together. There was always something. Willow had called it PTSD, had said so very deliberately, with her most serious resolve face on. But that didn’t really make sense. Buffy had had enough traumatic experiences in her short life for a whole town, Sunnydale specifically. What was one more, honestly? She didn’t have any idea what made this different. She was probably just depressed, seasonal affective disorder or something. It didn’t account for the random magic resistant pneumonia, general anxiety, or nightmares, but it was an explanation she was definitely more comfortable with. Easier than talking about the damn dungeon again. She would rather spend another month with pneumonia.

Fortunately, that night, it was the coughing, and not the nightmares that woke her. She came to alone, cocooned in an old quilt on the couch, heart racing as she blinked up at the dark ceiling. Buffy was not one to dwell on death. Not anymore. Not since that fateful day in the desert, when she had stumbled off the bus into the blazing sun and counted the faces that were left, dividing them over the total, calculating the grim mortality rate. She still saw them in her dreams sometimes, ragged soldiers gathered at the edge of the crater, wind whipping through their hair, their clothes, raising the dust like ashes at their feet. She had made her peace with all that. She had. But those dreams had been since been joined by a horrible, looping nightmare of piercing screams and anguished cries, Anna sobbing, Hilla begging, their hair-raising shrieks drilling into her skull like hot knives as dark figures chanted and carved their hearts out, still beating. And the smell, the overwhelming, unbelievably acrid stench of death and old blood, filling up her nose, her chest, until she her lungs burned, peering out through the gloom over the massive pentagram on the stone floor, saturated with old, coagulated blood that was so thick and so sticky that deep footprints had been left behind by the vampires. She always relived the escape in her dreams, slipping and falling, scrambling up from the cave floor with her hands and knees coated in that putrid, gelatinous mixture, cold, slimy, and wet.

Since her friends had found her, shivering in the hospital bed with a thousand yard stare, Buffy had struggled to feel truly clean. She had tried scalding hot showers and rough exfoliants. She had tried ice water baths and rubbing alcohol. She had punished her skin repeatedly, without effect. Only the prescription cough syrup took the edge off. Her friends watched and murmured behind closed doors, fretting, speculating, trying to make sense of her haunted glances. In the end, they were too far out of their depth. The mental toll was incalculable, but the physical toll was visible for all to see. She was sick. They had focused on that as much as they could. It was all they could do.

Her dark thoughts were interrupted by a familiar spasm in her chest, a heavy, bone rattling cough. She covered her mouth as her back arched and her muscles jumped, whimpering pitifully into the pillow when it finally stopped. Her throat was sore. Her chest was sore. She covered her eyes and released a shaky breath. She needed to get a grip. There was nothing for her at the bottom of the rabbit hole. Yes, she had lost two slayers. What had Giles said? That they were not the first. That they wouldn’t be the last. That they were fighting a war and wars had casualties. His words were not comforting, and they weren’t intended to be. They were meant to help her get on, to give her fire, and anger, and something sharp to hit with, an edge that she could take with her into the next fight.

If only she wanted to fight.

Buffy lifted her body delicately into a sitting position, wheezing a bit, peering out the double-paned window over the back of the couch. The neighbors had put up their Christmas decorations sometime during the day. Rainbow lights glimmered in a neat row, outlining the garage and the roof over the broad, flat porch. They had even put a string of lights on the second story, and glowing plastic icicles hung from the tree out front. Snow wafted down from the steel grey sky overhead, each flake glimmering in the soft orbs of light for the briefest moment, before disappearing again into the darkness. It was all rather beautiful and peaceful. The weather was shaping up to bring them another white Christmas, and after two decades growing up in the sun-drenched valleys of California, Buffy was still awed by the novelty of it.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered to herself, and then immediately felt stupid, because it wasn’t even Christmas yet.

If she was being honest, she wasn’t sure what day it was.

A door opened in the hallway, shattering the silence. Buffy tensed, presently becoming aware of light footsteps, padding to the cabinet by the kitchen sink to retrieve a glass, turning on the faucet, filling it up. She rose up off the cushions on stiff, aching legs, and, wrapping the quilt tight around herself, shuffling across the dark room expecting to find Kennedy in from patrol.

Buffy leaned up against the doorway in the kitchen, stifling another cough.

“You’re in late,” she observed, tone uncharacteristically hoarse.

The dark figure turned and froze. “Shit. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

That voice… That was most definitely not Kennedy’s voice.

Buffy straightened up and reached for the switch just as her heart began to thump. It couldn’t be. Could it? There was no way. She would’ve known. They would’ve asked her. Her fingers found the little plastic button and bright light washed over them both, blinking and squinting at each other across the room.

Buffy’s mouth fell open. Her stomach flipped.

“Faith?”

“Hey.” The brunette managed a small, sheepish wave.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

“Getting a glass of water.”

“No, I mean,” Buffy made a startled noise, “what are you doing here?” She waved vaguely at the cabinetry.

“Oh, I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Giles.”

“Oh my god, you are the veteran slayer he called to help us out.” Buffy groaned, burying her head in the quilt. “I should’ve known.”

Faith frowned. "He didn't tell you?"

"Obviously not." The blonde coughed and sniffled. “Although I did think it was kinda weird that he didn’t say who.”

"Figures." Faith drained the rest of her glass and went to fill it up again.

Buffy stared at her openly. The other slayer was just as cavalier as she had always been in tense situations, but there were marked differences now. It didn't seem forced. Her limbs were loose and limber, her movements more graceful, more fluid. It made Buffy even more aware of the sickness in her own body, the fatigue, the strain, the thick, viscous bog in her lungs. The faces of two teenagers floating through her head.

"Why are you here?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

The brunette inspected something in her glass. "Giles said you needed help."

"It's been years, Faith. You haven't been back here in years."

Faith just shrugged. "Yeah, I've been busy."

She was deflecting. It was a strategy Buffy was all too familiar with and it made her unreasonably angry. The desire to choke a straight answer out of her was growing by the second.

"Busy doing what?"

Faith tipped back her glass and swallowed half her water in a single gulp. “Whatever the organization needed me to do, really.” She wiped her mouth. “All the dirty jobs that no one else wanted.”

“And none of those dirty jobs brought you stateside?”

“Not really,” Faith replied tersely, anticipating a conflict.

“We’ve had a few ‘dirty jobs’ here that we could’ve used your help with, but I guess Cleveland isn’t exotic enough.” I guess I’m not exotic enough.

“B-”

Buffy shook herself and held up a hand. "Never mind. I don't care. I just want to know what the hell you're doing here now."

"Helping."

Buffy scoffed. "Helpful is not a word I would use to describe you. What are you really doing here?"

“I already told you. Giles asked me to help.”

“Faith-”

The brunette glanced at her sharply. "I’ve been gone four years, B."

"Yeah, I can count, thanks."

"Before that I was in prison for three years."

"And?"

"You've had seven years to get over the shit I did in high school. Stop acting like I fucked your boyfriend yesterday," Faith retorted, annoyed. "I'm not 16 anymore. Stop acting like we're teenagers, and you know fuck all about me. ‘Cause you don't."

"I know enough," Buffy snapped hoarsely. "Some things never change."

The look Faith leveled at her oozed contempt. "Everyone else dealt with it and forgave me ages ago. Move on."

"Not everyone. Not Willow."

"Willow treats me like an adult," Faith growled. "We can at least be civil with one another, but you? I guess you just wanna be mad, B. You just want a punching bag to wail on when things get shitty.”

“Oh,” Buffy sneered, wiping her nose on the quilt, “you’re such a martyr, huh?”

“I guess so, if that’s what this makes me!” Faith spread her arms. “I was the only one willing to get on a plane and fly out to fucking Cleveland, 'cause I'm the only one who’s still willing to take the abuse. Well, guess what?"  Faith slammed her glass down on the counter. "This is the last time I do you a fucking favor. I've been traveling around the world for years trying to prove I’m committed to the cause, but somehow you’re just pissed I didn’t come home for your birthday party! It'll just never be enough for you! You'll never see me as anything but a fucked up 15 year old runaway, working for a demon 'cause he's the closest thing she has to a real family."

"Faith..."

"No, I'm through." She turned on her heel and headed for the hall. "I've fucking had it with your self-righteous bullshit."

Damnit.

Buffy ground her teeth and chased after her. "So, what? You're just gonna check out again once we get the bad guy?"

The dark slayer didn't bother turning back around as she responded. "Sure, whatever you say, B."

"Why do you always do that?" Buffy followed her through the double french doors into the study, where a camping cot and sleeping bag had been set up next to the old radiator. "Why do you always leave when things get rough?"

"I don't."

"You do!" the blonde insisted thickly, grabbing the cuff of Faith's sweater and pulling her around. "You always bail!"

Faith had a sharp rebuke ready, but she hesitated when she saw Buffy’s earnest expression. She looked off to side, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. The old, familiar tension had returned in her shoulders, like she was a caged animal. Her dark eyes were uncertain.

“You look terrible, B.”

“Gee,” Buffy paused to cough, “thanks.”

“When they said you were sick I didn’t really believe it, but you look…”

The blonde slayer heaved an exasperated sigh. “Faith, c’mon. Answer me.”

"What do I have to stay for?" She refused to meet Buffy's gaze. "You all don't want me here."

Buffy was struck momentarily speechless.

"We were never destined to be on Earth at the same time," Faith said. "Maybe we just weren't meant to get along. Maybe that’s why I stayed outta your way."

“Out of my way?”

“Yeah,” the dark slayer rolled her eyes, “‘cause you need a lotta room to move around, don’t ya? Start to get all territorial when I hang around too long, huh, B?”

“You’re the one who acts like a caged cat if anyone tries to keep you in one place.”

“I stay where I’m wanted.”

“Oh, poor you.”

“Shut up.”

“Right,” Buffy sniffed. “I’m acting like we’re teenagers? Didn’t they teach you the word ‘irony’ in school, F?”

Faith twitched. “Let go of me!”

All the fight went out of her. Buffy released Faith's sleeve, arm dropping to her side. She was already tired again, wheezing a little. The urge to cough was getting stronger.

"I'm going back to bed," Faith said pointedly, flopping down on the sleeping bag. "I'd love to stay up and argue some more, but I just spent 16 hours on a plane and I need to crash. You can yell at me in the morning."

Buffy stalled for a moment, eyes fixed on her sister slayer's hard expression. Then, wordlessly, she turned on her heel and left the room. She shed her blanket by the stairs in the hall.

Sleep was a lost cause. It was a real struggle not to put her fist through a wall.

Four years.

Four years.

“Four fucking years and she turns up acting all cool and nonchalant, like it’s our monthly lunch date or something.” Buffy descended the basement stairs, muttering angrily under her breath. “More like our monthly punch date.”

She rolled her eyes at her own bad joke, reaching for the bare switch panel. Xander had never bothered to replace it after he finished the remodel. Dim, yellow light illuminated the sprawling, concrete basement. The ceiling was low, and the floor always retained a damp, clammy chill on Buffy’s feet, even in the middle of summer. It was cleaner than her mother’s old basement in Sunnydale, and, in addition to a set manacles, and some extra storage shelves along the far wall, Xander had been kind enough to help her install a training space in the corner. She wiggled her toes as she stepped onto the crash mat and squared up to the weathered, red punching bag hanging from the ceiling. She considered taping her knuckles and dismissed the idea. No doubt her skin would suffer. No doubt she would bleed.

No matter.

Buffy clenched her teeth, heaved a deep breath, coughed a little, and dropped into a boxing stance. Who did Faith think she was? The brunette’s words always got under her skin, and they always made her so angry, so unreasonably mad. Like she was some kind of psycho with an explosive temper. Buffy launched a hard right hook. The bag shuddered and recoiled. The chains rattled, clinking like angry little bells overhead. Faith knew just what to say, knew how to rile her up. Buffy threw another hard punch, this time with her left. The bag jumped away from her and swung back like a pendulum, ready to meet her next strike. The blonde obliged with a spine-snapping two handed blow that would have killed any mortal on contact. Fire flickered in her eyes, even as she struggled not to cough, ignored her stiff muscles, gasped for air like she’d already run five miles. With a roar of frustration Buffy rained down bone-crushing blows, pummeling the bag with everything she could summon, carrying on until she was exhausted, and then pushing through it until she crumpled onto the mat wheezing.

Tears mingled with salt and sweat, trickling down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. A ragged sob rose in her throat, and Buffy covered her mouth with shaking hands, kneeling forward until her forehead hit the crash mat. Like a prayer. She stayed until her shoulders stilled. She stayed until the wild feelings left her.  


	3. The Dreamcatcher

“Vampires can’t enter homes,” Giles mused one evening, sitting with them in the living room while Dawn and Noa, a young witch visiting from Spain, decorated the Christmas tree, “but that doesn’t mean they can’t smoke people out.”

Willow glanced up from her Kindle. “Are you talking about the unusually high number of arsons around here lately?”

“Indeed.” He muted the television. “It makes sense doesn’t it?”

“It does…” Willow’s eyes followed the shaky cellphone video on the television screen, the nightly news playing another reel of disturbing eyewitness footage. “It kinda freaks me out though. Like, does this mean the vamps have found a way around the no entry rule?”

“Lord, I hope not.” He stroked his greying beard. “You’ve protected this house against fire?”

“Duh,” Willow rolled her eyes. “I’m not a noob. I covered all basic earth elements, some heavy metals, toxic gases, and seven different types of magic.”

“Nerd!” Dawn called from somewhere behind the tree.

“Haters gonna hate,” Willow sing-songed.

Giles hummed under his breath. “The governor is on TV again. They’re going to call in the national guard.”

“They’re scared.”

All eyes turned to Buffy, but she said nothing more. She wrapped herself tighter in her blanket and kept her eyes fixed on the fire. It was Faith that broke the silence first.

“It doesn’t seem random. If it were, they’d just burn down a whole block and round everybody up.” She frowned. “They’re targeting specific people.”

All eyes in the room flicked to Willow, who had been quietly annointed as their interim leader during Buffy’s extended illness. She bore the mantel with a little less confidence, less arrogance, less natural born ability, but it suited her. She was growing into it.

The redhead sighed. “I agree with Faith. They do appear to be targeting specific homes. Is there a pattern?”

“All those families had teenage daughters,” Dawn said blithely, unwrapping a glass reindeer ornament. “I knew some of them back in school.”

“Teenage girls,” Giles said thoughtfully. “Virgins…”

Faith’s gut twisted uncomfortably. “What’re you thinkin’, G?”

He didn’t immediately reply. The whole room waited on him with bated breath. All save Buffy, once again lost in her thoughts, and Dawn, who continued unwrapping ornaments, threading the wire hooks through glass loops, and reaching up to hang them around barren branches.

At last, he removed his spectacles and began polishing them on the lapel of his jacket. “Offerings... Yes, to their master.” He nodded to himself. “Demons believe that virgins have untainted blood. It would be considered an honor to present your master with a human virgin to drink. I think that’s the most likely explanation.”

“Do we need to be worried about this kiddo?” Faith gestured at the lanky, auburn haired teen.

“Not a virgin,” Dawn replied drily.

Everyone smirked, except Giles, who averted his eyes and cleared his throat, signalling an end to the discussion before it could really get started. Noa giggled and handed Dawn another box of ornaments, muttering something quietly to her in Spanish. They laughed together.

Faith scrunched up her nose and turned to Kennedy, who was immersed in a game on her phone. “When did the jailbait learn Spanish?”

“You kidding?” Kennedy scoffed. “She knows like, four languages already, and she can read Latin.”

Faith’s eyes widened imperceptibly.

“Yeah. I know. She wants to be a watcher.”

“And I’ll make a really freaking good one,” Dawn announced proudly, stepping away from the Christmas tree to admire her handiwork. “I’ve got eight years of experience dealing with Buffy, after all.” She beamed over at her older sister, who, to everyone’s surprise, managed to return a wan smile. “Number one slayer badass of all time.”

“Hey!” Faith and Kennedy protested simultaneously. They turned to look at each other, and laughed.

“Is there anything we can do?” Willow lamented, bringing the conversation back around to the panning images of burning homes on the tv. “A dozen people have already gone missing since yesterday.” She gnawed on her thumbnail. “I feel bad.”

“You feel bad?” Kennedy deadpanned. “Babe. This is Cleveland. The citizens of this city should be held liable for being stupid enough to live on a hellmouth.”

“Still…” Willow looked no less anguished.

“We don’t have the situation under control,” Faith mused, and everyone turned to look at her, including a stony-faced Buffy.” The city is burning and we don’t have the forces we need to stop it.” She ran her fingers through her hair, frustrated. “Giles, isn’t there anyone else we can call?”

He replaced his spectacles and regarded her pensively for a few seconds. “There is a possibility that Alma and Maite will be finished with their mission next week, although it could drag on. Natalia is tied up in Ukraine until after Christmas.” His brow furrowed. “We are, truthfully, very short on hands at the moment.”

“How is that possible?” Faith pressed incredulously. “There must be a thousand slayers by now.”

The watcher sighed. “Yes, and six...no, seven billion people to police.”

“Yeah, but-”

“-Not all of them are active within the organization,” he said tersely, cutting off her reply. “There was a fair amount of mismanagement during our takeover of the Council. Some of the old members sabotaged our slayer relationships, even mobilized them against us. Others, for political reasons, have gone to work for their respective governments or religious factions.” He gave her an inscrutable look. “Not all of the newborn slayers have been willing to work with us.”

Faith sat in stunned silence for a moment. Was it embarrassing to admit that she hadn’t known all that? She had dealt with a few rogue slayers. It wasn’t surprising that there would be some, given that she was basically their poster child, but on a large scale? She had assumed that the Organization had things more or less under control.

“You’ve been in the field for a long time,” Giles said, correctly guessing her next question. “You’ve missed out on all the politics in London.”

True, it made sense that not everyone would wake up with super powers one day and suddenly want to fight the good fight, or, at any rate, the frustrating, and often morally ambiguous fight the Slayer Organization was waging against Evil. She glanced furtively at Buffy, who had resumed staring vacantly into her lap. Maybe Dawn had given her too much cough syrup.

“Okay,” she huffed. “I guess we’ll have to make do with what we have.”

“We can handle it,” Kennedy remarked casually, back to playing the jewel game on her phone. “We’re certified.”

Faith decided to take the bait. “Certified what?” she asked.

Kennedy’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Certified badasses.”

Dawn and Noa snorted, and Faith could have sworn that the faintest traces of a smile flitted across Buffy’s drawn features.

/ / /

Kennedy and Faith handled normal patrolling duties in the immediate area while Buffy rested. Though it had been decided upon unanimously by the rest of the group, Faith was still surprised every night when the blonde didn’t beg Giles to let her go out. She was even more surprised when Buffy didn’t needle her about her drinking habits, or her smoking habits. No mention of the bourbon above the fridge. Not a word about the ashtray she had added to the front porch. No dirty looks or muttered grievances. Nothing. And it was profoundly disconcerting. In fact, there were a lot of details about Buffy’s recent behavior that were disconcerting. Apart from their initial argument, Buffy had made a point to ignore Faith almost completely, which wouldn’t have been so unusual, except that she had been particularly distant from the rest of her friends as well. Only Dawn had been able to coax real conversation out of her, and it was curt and laconic, as though each word were uttered with great effort. She spent most of her time coughing and wheezing, alternating between sleeping and staring at the TV, nearly catatonic. When she did move about the house she was irritable and easily startled, jumping at the slightest sounds, dodging glances, arms folded like a shield across her chest. It had Faith rattled. She had seen the thousand yard stare on plenty of faces before, but never on Buffy’s.

She was starting to wish she had never gotten on the plane.

The tension showed in her expression late one evening, the second week into her stay, crunching along on an icy sidewalk next to Kennedy. Cleveland was quiet, foggy, and frozen. The narrow, colonial double homes packed in around Fairfax Park twinkled with lights and decorations. The busier avenues were strung up as well. The pointed stone tower of the Cleveland Renaissance Hotel glowed red and green from downtown, and though it was barely visible through the mist, Faith’s eyes strayed in that direction whenever there was a break in the trees and the houses. With the cultists in town, the local vampires were keeping their heads down, which was just as well, since the two slayers had resorted to applying adhesive to their gloves just to help their cold fingers grip the stakes. Faith’s shoulders were slumped forward in her army green, duck-cloth coat, eyes dark and downcast beneath her wool hat. She was brooding, something she did quite often, something that, to the old scoobies, seemed as natural to her persona as her wild, brown hair. But Kennedy was not, and never would be, one of the original scoobies, and she took a genuine interest in Faith’s somber mood, watching her openly as they trudged along, hopping the fence into St. John’s Cemetery, slogging through a field of crusty, shin-deep snow. When they had circled the property twice in silence, finding nothing but a freshly abandoned grave and a freaked out newbie, who panicked and ran straight from Faith’s stake into the pointy end of Kennedy’s, the two slayers settled down on a couple of flat-topped headstones for a break. Faith pulled a crushed cardboard packet from her coat pocket and offered a cigarette to Kennedy, who nodded and stretched out her hand. Faith lit up, passed the lighter, and exhaled, watching the smoke drift up to join the freezing fog hanging over the trees.

She heard Kennedy fumbling with her gloves, and then the sharp click of metal, a brief flash of orange light illuminating the names etched in the stones around them.

“This job is so morbid,” Kennedy muttered, glancing around. “I spend more time in cemeteries than I do in Willow.”

“Jesus,” Faith snorted, blowing smoke through her nose, “what a way to open a damn conversation.”

“What?” Kennedy smirked. “I still get laid after five years together. That’s a pretty big deal for us lesbos.”

“You want an award or something? Jeez.”

“Hey!” Kennedy gave her an indignant shove. “Lesbian bed death is a real thing! I get to be proud of us, and you get to shut up!”

Faith just snickered. “Okay, whatever, but I’m getting you a vagina trophy.”

“Fine. I’ll put it over my fucking fireplace.”

“Yeah? You gonna show it off to your dinner guests?”

“Absolutely.”

Faith tapped her filter and let some of the ash on the of her cigarette float to the ground. “It sounds like things are going well.”

“Yeah, they are.”

“Congrats. I didn’t think you’d last long, but I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“Thanks,” Kennedy said drily.

“Anytime.”

“You know, I gave up a slot with the crew in Paris just to be with her. After Sunnydale she wasn’t willing to leave Buffy and Dawn, so I stayed.”

“Sucks you had to settle for Cleveland.”

“I know, but honestly? It was an easy decision.”

Faith flashed her a sly smile. “So, where’s the ring, Ken?”

Kennedy shrugged, pausing to take a deep drag on her cigarette. “Willow doesn’t believe in marriage. She thinks it’s sexist and old-fashioned.”

“Bullshit. She’s afraid of commitment.”

“Will?” Kennedy gave Faith an incredulous look. “She’s the most domestic woman I know. She makes Buffy look like a philandering adrenaline junkie.”

“Buffy is a philandering adrenaline junkie.”

“Hardly the point.”

Faith smirked. They lapsed into silence for a moment, listening to a car creak over patches of ice on the road behind them.

“She would never leave me. She loves me.”

“Mm…”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Faith shrugged. “Is it?”

Kennedy rolled her eyes. “Look out! We’ve got a fucking philosopher over here.”

“I mean, is it enough for you, Ken?”

‘Well, yeah.” She threw her filter to the ground and watched it smolder in the snow. “It should be.”

Faith raised a dubious eyebrow. “Okay.”

“I mean…” the young woman huffed, “it’s just that, Mom and Dad are starting to ask about grandchildren, and I haven’t even gotten there yet. Willow and I still share a house with a bunch of other people. Hell, we can’t even have loud sex. And then there’s the fact that I kill demons for a living. We definitely haven’t talked about kids, and, well, it doesn’t exactly seem right to have kids unless things are like, really serious, right? And stable?”

“I guess.”

“I mean, doesn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Not that I want kids right now, anyway. There’s plenty of time for that later, but, I just… it got me thinking about us. About where we’re going.”

“She’ll come around.” Faith ground out her cigarette and tossed it away. “When she lost Tara it almost fucking ruined her. She’s scared, ya know? For you and herself. She’s not sure if she can handle losing someone else.”

“She won’t lose me,” Kennedy asserted fiercely, hopping to her feet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. Tell her that. Tell her that you want her, and you wanna make her yours. Girls like that shit.” Faith hoisted herself off her respective tombstone, and shivered. “Let’s get moving. It’s cold.”

“You’ve been in the tropics too long.”

Faith’s lips twitched and for a moment she was smiling. “Yeah, I missed the winter.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yeah.”

“So,” Kennedy rolled the word around her mouth as she tried to think of a less jarring way to change the subject, “what’s bugging you?”

They reached the fence and vaulted over it nimbly back onto the street. The fog was growing thicker, a heavy, icy blanket of mist that froze in their hair and seeped into their clothes. If visibility had been poor when they’d set out from the house, it was atrocious now. A heavy, eerie silence had settled over the city.

“I dunno.”

“Is it small, mouthy, and blonde?”

“No... Maybe.” She huffed. “Am I that transparent?”

“You’re like, the worst liar ever.”

“C’mon,” Faith whined. “Not ever.”

“Pretty bad. At least where Cleveland’s own head-slayer-in-charge is concerned.”

“She’s just got that way of like…”

“Getting under your skin? Yeah, trust me. I wrote the book on her nagging abilities.”

“Things are going better than I expected, though," Faith mused. "Buffy hasn't called me an evil slut yet. I'm actually kind of surprised."

Kennedy spared her a sidelong glance before turning back to the road. "Has she actually spoken to you at all?"

The brunette snorted. "Do hostile glares count?”

Kennedy smirked. "I'll take that as a 'no'."

“We argued the night I got in,” Faith admitted. “She’s been ignoring me since then.”

“She’s basically been ignoring everyone. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Faith heaved an exaggerated sigh. “And here I was feeling all special.”

“Yeah, well, she still changes the subject when Giles mentions your name,” Kennedy shot the brunette a knowing look, “so, there’s that.”

“Wow.”

“You have a special place in her heart.”

“Right. The blackest, coldest, most unfashionable place.”

They snorted in unison as they turned the corner onto a darker street, lined with smaller, shabbier houses. Home was less than a mile away, and Faith was anxious to get there. Slow nights always made her uneasy.

“I’m worried,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

“Neither have we.”

“Pneumonia?” Faith scoffed. “Really?”

“Don’t get me started. Willow’s tried everything.”

“Is it all up here?” Faith tapped her skull. “Stress induced?”

“Could be, but it’s real enough to convince real doctors.” Kennedy hesitated and bit her lip before continuing. “I don’t know if they told you, but… she was really messed up when we found her. I mean, messed up bad. I’ve never seen her like.”

Faith shivered. “Like how?”

“Well, they had been missing for days, and we were all basically hysterical. And then the hospital called about Buffy so we all rushed over there, but she shrieked when Dawn tried to touch her and she wouldn’t look at any of us. It was really freaky.”

A chill travelled down Faith’s spine, raising the hairs on her neck. “Giles and Willow told me some stuff, but they weren’t too specific. They mentioned that these cult assholes used the other two girls in a ritual to open the portal.”

“Ritual,” Kennedy scoffed, and Faith head the slightest tremor in her voice. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Oh, yeah? How would you put it then?”

“Buffy wouldn’t talk about it, and she pretty much flew into a panic if we asked too many questions, so Willow used a seer stone to access her memories.”

“And?”

“And it was horrible. It kept Willow up for a week. They tortured them, Faith.” Kennedy stopped and grabbed the older slayer by the arm and held her back. “They raped the girls, and beat them, and drank from them, and the whole time they kept Buffy chained to a wall, blindfolded, so she could hear everything. And that happened before they summoned the Dreamcatcher through the portal.”

“Fuck…”

Tears leaked from Kennedy’s eyes, and she turned her head away. “Those girls were my friends. I spent every night slaying with them, and the only reason I’m here now is because it was my night off.”

Faith took Kennedy’s gloved hand in hers and squeezed. “You got lucky, Ken. There’s no way to sugarcoat it.”

“God damnit.”

“Look, I’ve been in a lot of tight spots these last couple years.” Faith’s tone darkened. “I’ve seen things that would make you sick, like, chuck right on the ground sick. This ain’t no TV show, yeah? Some real sick shit happens in the world, but if you dwell on it and play the ‘what if’ game you’ll literally go crazy. And unless you wanna sweat out a prescription painkiller addiction in a bathtub full of your own puke, I suggest finding another way to deal.”

“Jesus, Faith…”

“You have a responsibility now.” Faith asserted, harsh, townie accent bleeding through. “You’ve gotta live for them, ya know? You’ve gotta make the most of life. ‘Cuz you never know when it’s gonna end.” She pulled the young slayer into her arms. “C’mere, Ken.”

Kennedy sniffed. “Since when do you hug?”

“Since shut-up-and-appreciate-it,” Faith said gruffly, and they clung together in a moment of shared camaraderie.  

After a minute or so the girls pulled apart, clearing throats, stuffing hands into pockets, continuing their walk in contemplative silence.

“It’s good to have you back,” Kennedy said, at length.

“It’s good to be back,” Faith admitted, surprising them both.

They crossed back over Quincy and continued north into the neighborhood, talking quietly about Christmas decorations and holiday traditions. They had hardly gone a half mile when Faith, in the middle of a story about New Year’s Eve celebrations in Taipei, realized that something was off. The streetlamps were flickering, and the shadows had grown longer, blacker. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. As they rounded the corner onto another, darker, residential street, her skin erupted in a rash of goosebumps, prickly, almost painful. The fog was so thick it was soupy, and visibility had dropped. It was distinctly unnatural. From the corner of her eye she saw Kennedy draw her knife, twirling it deftly and gripping it in her palm. Faith slid her own blade from the leather holster at her hip.

“See him?” she whispered, and Kennedy responded with a tiny nod.

Through the mist she could just make out the dark silhouette of an abnormally tall figure, dressed in a long overcoat, standing next to the light post up ahead. His features were obscured in shadow, but he watched them openly, and she could feel his eyes. They crept closer with bent knees and tense muscles, senses opening up to their surroundings, listening, feeling, smelling.

“Hello, slayers!” He called out to them with a voice that was deep, curious, and cold, cutting through them like sharp steel. “I’ve been following you!” He smiled so wide that they could see it even through the fog.

Faith gripped her knife and clenched her teeth. Her muscles felt like they would snap.

“Is this the freak?” she mumbled.

Kennedy was either too scared or too focused to answer.

The man started toward them on unnervingly long legs, gliding through the fog like a black wraith, in the eerie orange glow of the streetlamp. His skin was a deep, chocolate brown, his head shaved and bare. He stood around 7’5”, with brawny arms bulging in the sleeves of his overcoat, and legs the size of small tree trunks stuffed into tight leather pants. His thick-soled combat boots crunched on the icy pavement as he slunk closer, skidding suddenly to a stop no more than 10 yards from where they stood.

“I know you.” He cocked his head to one side, peering at Kennedy with luminous red eyes. “I’ve seen you before, but you,” he turned to peer at Faith, “we haven’t seen you.”

Faith became aware of a tingling sensation along her spine. “He brought vamps.”

“I felt it, too,” Kennedy said through clenched teeth. “We’re surrounded.”

“Yeah, no shit. How do we get un-surrounded?”

He laughed and it washed over them in petrifying, hair-raised waves, echoing off the walls in their minds until their teeth chattered and their very bones seemed to vibrate. “Don’t leave, girls! Let’s talk.”

He seemed to take a step forward, and then, in the blink of an eyes, he appeared inches from Faith’s face, towering over her like a hungry predator. She staggered back in shock, but he snatched up a handful of her hair, ripping the beanie clean off her head, as he bared a set of pearly white fangs. His mouth was wide, too wide, sickeningly wide, and when he grinned at her again, she heard herself whimpering. He had once been human. That much was clear to see, but up close the divergences were stark, sharp, extended cheekbones jutting out beneath his skin, an elongated jaw and a mouth twice its normal width. His eyes were red, and they blazed like hot coals as he grew more excited, flicking a pointed tongue across his teeth.

“Ken!” Faith gasped as he twisted the knife out of her hand. “Fucking stab him already!” But the sound of grunting, and growling, and blows landing on hard bodies nearby caused her heart to sink.

“Vampires!” Kennedy managed to shout back, now embroiled in a fierce scuffle in the street.

She dodged a would be attacker as he lunged for her throat and buried her silver knife in his back. Ragged screams were muffled in the cloying fog, which had taken on a new, sinister life of its own, swirling around them in a blanket so thick that neither slayer could see the houses around them any longer. Three more demons emerged from the mist and tackled Kennedy to the ground. Faith turned her panicked gaze back to the monster holding her aloft.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” his smile curled up into a terrifying snarl, lips bared around a set of gleaming fangs. “I am Christopher,” he cocked his demonic head to one side, “and the bastard stuffed inside my body is Valerious.”

“Dr-dreamcatcher,” Faith choked, gagging as he clamped a fist around her throat.

“Yesss,” he purred, and, leaning forward, ran his hot, black, pointed tongue along her jaw, pausing to snap at her neck. “We love the way you taste.”

“I s-shower regularly,” Faith rasped.

“Witty.” He suckled at the point above her jugular, and she shuddered violently all over. “Are you used to winning now? Have you forgotten what it feels like to lose?”

“I’ve got nothing to lose but my dignity,” the slayer wheezed, kicking at the dreamcatcher futilely as he lifted her off the icy sidewalk.

“How selfish of you.” A predatory growl rumbled in his broad chest. “What about Buffy?”

Her thoughts to hide it came a moments too late. Instinct was there first. Faith froze.

“I hit a nerve,” he observed, pleased.

“What about Buffy?!” Faith spat, tugging futilely as clawed fingertips dug into her flesh.

“Oh, slayer,” the stretched, blood-curdling grin returned to his face, and he shook her hard, laughing with delight as she whimpered and struggled, pawing at his arm with useless, gloved hands, “don’t you know why they call me the Dreamcatcher?”

Behind her, Kennedy had taken a particularly painful blow to the knee, and Faith could hear the bones cracking as the vampires cheered. She winced. They were so royally screwed.

“Well?” He shook her by her hair. “Do you?”

“F-f-fuck you!”

“Fuck me?” He appeared delighted by the proposition. “We could make that happen.” He ran his knuckle down the side of her face, drawing back with a laugh when snapped at him.

He increased the pressure on her windpipe and it hurt so much that she writhed in his grasp, coughing and gagging. Her sharp vision was growing fuzzy around the edges. He was so strong that she could barely inconvenience him with her superhuman strength. His eyes locked onto hers and flickered with malice.

“Want a ride?”

“Bite me!” Faith spat.

The Dreamcatcher bared his fangs. “I thought you’d never ask.”

And he sank his teeth into her neck.

Faith had been bitten by several vampires before. It was an unpleasant occupational hazard. This was different.

This pain was on a whole other level.

Distantly, she was aware of fire spreading into her veins, and of her own terrified screaming, ragged voice ringing out into the frozen night air. The world around her grew blurry, and then faded. Faith moaned, but no sound came out. She tried to run, but her body was made of cement. She couldn’t move. Everything was thick and heavy.

Suddenly she was falling, as if through the air, falling for an eternity, falling past flashes of light, sound, faces, voices. She fell faster and faster. It seemed to go on forever.

Then, she landed suddenly in a heap on the bare, dirty floor of a very familiar bedroom.

Her bedroom.

She looked around and saw yellowed walls, once white, now stained with layers of smoke and neglect, a grotty, single paned window that rattled in the wind and leaked like a sieve. The carpets had long since been pulled up, and all that remained was the old, pockmarked wood sub-flooring underneath, rough and unvarnished. There was a double bed on a rickety, metal frame, and a thrift store lamp balanced atop a kitchen chair beside it. Ripped, faded posters gazed down from the walls: Nine Inch Nails, Led Zeppelin, Alice In Chains. Ratty clothes spilled from the drawers of a small, wooden wardrobe, hanging ajar with half of the handles ripped out. She turned her head and saw that the ground was littered with debris, trash, magazines, cigarette butts, bottles, wristbands from bars, and ticket stubs. Faith felt the bile rising in her throat as she realized where she was, clambering to feet and rushing to the window.

The streets of Boston glared back at her.

Oh, God, this wasn’t happening. There was no way this was happening.

Not again.

She knew what day this was. Her stomach churned so ferociously that thought she might actually be sick. There was no way she could stay here. She had to find a way out. Voices sounded from the living room, loud, caustic, slurring voices and Faith flew into a panic. Not Keith not Keith not Keith no, God, please no! She stumbled across the room and reached for the door, but just as her fingers were grasping the doorknob, it flew open, striking her hard across the face. She cried out and staggered back into the bed frame, clutching her forehead, and when two heavy boots thudded against the stripped, wooden floors, Faith began to plead.

“Please, no! Please, please, please!”

Keith’s eye were bleary and red. His dark hair was greasy and disheveled. There was a crop of grey stubble growing in around his mouth, and he looked like he had spent the night on the floor of a seedy bar. His grey undershirt was stained with beer, his jeans torn out at the knee. The drugs had made him thinner, but he had retained some of his muscular build through the years, and he towered over her regardless as he stumbled into the room. Muttering to herself frantically, Faith scrambled away from him, moving backwards on her hands and knees.

For his part, Keith seemed not to notice her distress.

“Yah fucking cunt mother won’t put out,” he drawled, swaying on his feet.

Faith peered around him to see the woman in question, passed out on the living room couch with a needle protruding from her arm. “Please, Keith, don’t do this,” she begged, curling in on herself against the bed frame. “Please, don’t!”

“I know what yah trying t’do,” he jabbed an unsteady index finger at her, “and it’s fucking not...it’s fucking not gonna work. Yah trying to make me feel bad for being a man.” He wiped his mouth. “You whores are all the fucking same, tryna play coy with me, like yah don’t want it. Well, I know yah want it, bitch.”

The man reached down and undid his belt.

“Keith!” Faith began to sob, growing hysterical. “Please, no! Keith!”

“I said SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

He lunged and backhanded her across face so hard that she saw stars.

Faith slumped onto the floor.

Not again.

Fuck.

The memory grew hazier, deteriorated into a barrage of sound and feeling, Faith crying out, tearing clothes, rough hands, bruises and blows. And then...pain, deep penetrating pain, like a burn spreading through her legs and her abdomen, and the sound of Keith grunting, cursing at her, choking her as he held her down.

She wanted to die.

It all stopped as suddenly as it had started. The all- encompassing blackness returned. swallowed her up. Faith felt like she was falling again.

The scene changed. Her head cleared.

She was standing next to a hospital bed holding someone’s hand, Robin’s hand. It was covered with cuts, all the way up his arm, traveling into regions obscured by the the sleeve of the hospital gown. His deep brown complexion was ashen. His skin was cool. The heart monitor beeped slowly, faintly, as he struggled to breathe, in the final throes.

“I’m sorry,” she heard herself say. “I’m so sorry.”

The wound had been fatal. She could still see the bandages on his chest, poking out above the thin, green fabric. They had been too late. No, she had been too late. Buffy had given her the scythe. If she had only sought him out a little quicker, cut through the vampires a little faster, she could have saved him. What had she been thinking? Letting him stay in Sunnydale. He was only a man. She had been so quick to disregard his human frailty in exchange for his company.

Why did she always have to be so selfish?

Why couldn’t she ever save the people she loved?

Did she really destroy everything she touched?

God, it felt that way.

She was a blight. A cancer.

The beep on the heart monitor dipped and leveled into shrill screech. Nurses burst into the room, dragging her aside. Faith cried out as she released his cold hand.

The weightless feeling returned.

Now she was in Boston again, but this time she was staring into the anguished face of Diana Dormer,  watching the disfigured old vampire, Kakistos, break the spine of her first watcher over his knee like a dry stick. She watched as he ripped Diana’s body in half and lifted her torso up by the hair, cackling as a cascade of crimson blood flowed into his mouth, spilling onto his cheeks.

“You’ll taste even better when I catch you!” he snarled. “I’ll make it nice and slow!”

Faith ran as fast as her skinny legs could carry her.

The darkness swallowed her up again.

She emerged back in Sunnydale, becoming aware of her location just as Buffy jammed the knife into her gut on the roof of her old apartment building. The burning, shredding pain lanced through her torso, and it almost felt good for a moment, like an exhalation, a sigh of relief, the release of mounting tension. It was so poetic to be destroyed by the girl who had undone her. All those feelings finally coming to a head, fading away in the roar of pain. Everything would be over soon. Everything would be as it should have been. She nearly smiled as the knife slid out, until she finally registered the look of shock and horror on Buffy’s face.

Had she put that expression there?

Faith stepped back onto the ledge.

She fell again, but she didn’t land. Images were passing faster, the memories were getting shorter. She woke up out of her coma in the hospital, alone, abandoned, scared. She revisited the restless hell of the state penitentiary. She heard Buffy’s venomous words in her ears. “Apologize and I will kill you.” Faith was falling, literally falling, deeper into her own mind, and somewhere, as though it were vibrations in a vast cave, she could hear the Dreamcatcher laughing.

/ / /

Kennedy, meanwhile, was faring only slightly better. She had whittled her opponents down to just two vampires, a lanky, blonde man, and a petite, Asian woman. They circled her cautiously, leery of her even with the ruined knee and freely bleeding head wound. Slayers were not trifles. She slipped a bit on the snow-packed street, gripping her bloody knife tighter in her cold, shaking hand. The adrenalin was helping out quite a bit with the excruciating pain, but it wouldn’t last much longer.

“What are you?” she goaded, glancing furtively in Faith’s direction. “Chicken?”

The pair exchanged amused, but silent glances. Kennedy huffed and employed her best, most effective strategy when wounded: playing up her weaknesses. She breathed harder through her mouth, making sure to sound ragged and tired. She let her other arm dangle limp at her side and winced when it moved, feigning a dislocated shoulder. Most importantly, she made sure to stumble, a lot.

“Come on, you dumb fangers!” she shouted, brandishing her knife with excessive bravado. “Let’s do this already!”

The male demon was first to take the bait, lunging for her feigned bad shoulder. Kennedy balanced her weight on her good leg and feinted right, whirling around in time to snag her fingers in the back of his collar. She yanked and he fell hard, ribs cracking on pavement. Kennedy plunged her knife down as his ragged screams ripped through the fog, but he was ready for her, rolling quickly. Her blade sank into his shoulder, inches from his heart, and cold, crimson blood spilled out onto the street. Tugging her blade free, Kennedy moved to strike the killing blow, but she was tackled from behind, tumbling head over heels until she landed flat on her back, gasping for breath. The female vampire rolled them so that she was on top, pinning the slayer down with her knees. She was faster than the other. Kennedy bucked her hips, hoping to throw her weight and catch her assailant off balance, but the vampire was ready for this. Her face morphed and she sank her teeth into the slayer’s collar, laughing through a river of steaming, hot blood as the girl writhed.

“Got you now, slayer,” the tiny vampire snarled, her high-pitched feminine voice sounding almost comical coming from a blood-stained mouth.

Kennedy grimaced and thrust her blade up into the vampire’s gut, twisting for good measure. Blood leaked down onto her jacket and spilled onto the ground. “Did you get so hungry that you forgot about my knife?”

The vampire wailed and withdrew.

“What’s that?” Kennedy snapped, climbing to her feet. “I can’t hear you over all that screaming.”

The male vampire grasped her ankle and she kicked him away with disgust. “Ugh, let’s not do this again.”

She dusted them both.

Whatever adrenalin she had left in her veins dried up as soon as she turned to survey Faith’s condition. The brunette was sprawled on the icy pavement, twitching and seizing with the dreamcatcher bent over her, fangs locked around her jugular. Kennedy unzipped her coat and stuffed her hand inside, shaking like a leaf. She withdrew a small, black handgun and aimed down the sight. The Dreamcatcher paused and unhinged his powerful jaw, raising his head, gazing down at his victim almost lovingly as blood dribbled off his chin.

“I know you’re there,” he purred.

Her hand trembled, messing with her aim. “Aren’t you gonna move?”

“No.” The smile vanished from his face as he turned to look at her. “I hope you kill me.”

Kennedy didn’t know what to make of that. She didn’t have time to think about whether or not it was a trap.

“Hold still,” she said.

She pulled the trigger.

 

 


	4. Stay

Buffy was asleep on the couch again, and, as always, her sister was there with her, flipping through the channels over a bowl of cereal. It was a new, nightly ritual of theirs. Dawn had pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail and clothed her lean frame in an oversized Browns sweatshirt, donated from some high school boyfriend or another. She tugged the edge of Buffy’s quilt over her lap and pulled up the tv guide. It was mid December, and there wasn't much on that didn't relate to Christmas in some roundabout way, but she settled on an old episode of Cops and shoveled cocoa puffs into her mouth. A chase was happening somewhere in Florida. She chewed slowly as policemen hopped fences and ran through yards, pursuing a drug dealer, whose baggy pants became more and more of a disadvantage, until eventually they doomed his escape. He was tackled by a chubby, mustachioed cop and handcuffed face down in the grass. 

"How do you not outrun  _ that _ guy?" Dawn muttered, checking the time on her watch. 

It was well after midnight, later than the slayers had promised to be home, and normally she wouldn't have thought anything of it, but nothing about Cleveland had been normal lately. She dialed Kennedy's number and put the speaker to her ear. The call went to voicemail. Faith, too, failed to pick up. Cereal forgotten, she sat chewing nervously on a hangnail for a few minutes trying to decide what to do. Another cycle of commercials came and went before she reached a decision. 

"Buffy!" She nudged her sister gently. "Buff!" 

The blonde moaned and swatted at her, but Dawn was persistent. After several more rounds of this, Buffy relented, blinking wearily in the dim living room.

"Mmph...What is it, Dawnie?"

"Ken and Faith are still gone." 

“...Did you try calling them?” 

Dawn gave her an impatient look. 

Buffy's eyes flicked back and forth, studying Dawn's tense expression. "Okay. ” She coughed a little, clearing away the phlegm that had settled deep in her chest. “What time is it?"

"1:15." 

“Oh...It’s late.” 

The sisters stared at each other wordlessly for a long moment. 

Buffy broke the silence. "We'll wait until two. If they're not back by then we're waking everyone up."

“Should we call Giles?”

“...Not yet.”

“Are you sure?” 

Buffy bit her lip. Giles was out on a brief trip to check on the slayer cell in Detroit. Calling him back to Cleveland in the middle of the night, during a patch of very icy weather, was a recipe for disaster. He would be back mid morning anyway. She shook her head resolutely. 

“No, we wait.”

They didn't have to wait very long, however. At 1:30 Dawn again shook Buffy, who had been dozing through a car chase, and uttered something quietly about commotion outside. They peered out the window over the back of the couch, but even with the porch light on, it was dark, and too foggy to make much out. 

"I think it's them," Buffy said, slayer vision aiding her against the elements. 

Moments later the front door swung open and something large and heavy thudded to the floor. Cold, wintry air rushed into the lukewarm room. Stifling a startled squeak, Dawn leapt to her feet and rushed into the entryway, nearly tripping over Faith in her haste. The brunette was pale, bloodied, and exhausted, kneeling on the hardwood floor next to Kennedy. Dawn’s hands flew to her mouth. A splotchy, hand-shaped bruise was forming around Faith’s neck. Kennedy's hair and face were coated with dark red blood. Her left leg was limp, twisted at an odd angle. 

Winded, Faith could only manage a couple words. "Get...Willow." 

Dawn turned to race up the stairs, feet pounding on the old floorboards. 

Buffy materialized right behind her, wide-eyed and white as a sheet. "What happened?"

Commotion and general clamor carried down from the second floor. Faith was still gasping, struggling to catch her breath. Her beanie had come off during the struggle, and her hair hung down in dark ropes, covering her face like a curtain.  She pressed a fist against a stitch in her side.

“We were...ambushed,” Faith rasped. She felt gingerly along the column of her damaged throat. “Couldn’t...get...away.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

Faith glared at her for a moment, but she was unable to muster even a breathless a retort. She jammed her hand into her pocket and pulled out her cellphone. The screen was shattered and the case was cracked. She tossed it on the floor at Buffy’s feet. 

The blonde studied it wordlessly for a moment. “Kennedy’s?”

Faith sucked in a lungful of air. “Lost.” 

“Hm.” Buffy grunted and frowned, shivering in the cold.

She stepped delicately over Faith and then Kennedy, who was wheezing quietly on her back. She reached for the front door, meaning to close it, but she paused. The fog outside was so dense that she couldn’t see into the street. The swirling mist had diffused the orange streetlamps and the rainbow lights from their neighbors’ decorations, permeating the haze with a dark, but ambient pink glow, like neon in a smoky bar. Buffy’s eyes swept the yard on high alert. Damp, cold air brushed her cheeks and raised goosebumps on her neck. It all seemed eerie and malevolent. The longer she stared into the darkness, the more she was sure that it was staring right back. 

Feet thumped on the stairs as Willow emerged in flannel pjs, followed closely by Dawn, and then Noa. Buffy abruptly came to her senses, emerging from her thoughts to find that she was shivering violently all over. She shut the door and turned the deadbolt, catching Faith’s curious gaze as she moved out of the way. Another shiver, of a different sort entirely, slipped south between the vertebrae along her spine, rushing down into her legs. She averted her eyes. 

"Ken!" Willow slid to her knees on the polished hardwood. She placed shaking hands on the slayer's bloody face. "Baby, are you okay? Talk to me!" 

Dawn was crying silently, and Noa's expression was dark as Willow knelt over her lover, fingers brushing hair away, probing for cuts and scrapes. The witch happened upon the shallow bite wound and Kennedy twitched a little, eyes fluttering. Willow wiped her hands on her Sunnydale University sweatshirt, smearing bloody handprints across her stomach. She exchanged a meaningful glance with Dawn, who turned on her heel and raced for the kitchen, returning moments later with a white, metal case. The redhead accepted the first aid kit silently and bent down until her lips brushed the slayer’s ear. 

“Babe?” It was a breathless whisper, a quiet plea.

Kennedy managed a thin smile, eyes squeezed shut, sucking in shallow breaths. 

"I'm o-okay," she murmured. 

“Faith,” Willow nearly snapped her name, “what happened?” 

The brunette tensed as she drug her eyes away from Buffy. "We were ambushed. She saved...my life." Faith combed her fingers through a mess of brown hair, seeming to catch her breath at last. "Assholes shattered her kneecap." 

“Dios mio," Noa hissed, tugging her robe tighter across her chest. 

“She was bitten,” Willow accused, with flushed cheeks and watering eyes. 

“I didn’t see that part, “Faith admitted hoarsely, “but Kennedy hung in there and fought them off...and we were able to scramble away,” she sat back on her haunches and brushed a curtain of wet hair out of her face. “It was a close fucking call.” 

Willow nodded curtly and began to mutter incantations under her breath. Noa joined in moments later, uttering her own lyrical, Castilian verses. 

"Who ambushed you?" Buffy’s tone was brittle, dark gaze dropping to the bloody, crescent-shaped wound on Faith’s neck. 

"That Dreamcatcher dickhead and some vampires." 

"He bit you."

Faith glanced up sharply. "Yeah." She shuddered violently all over and rubbed her knuckles into her eyes, rubbed the memory out of them. "Fuck." 

Buffy winced. “Did he get to Ken, too?”

“Don’t think so.” 

By now Kennedy had been sedated, and her face, screwed up in excruciating pain just seconds earlier, was relaxed, jaw slack as the witches worked their healing magic, weaving skin and bone back together in foreign tongues, words interlocking and overlapping. Willow's hands were glowing. Noa's long, chestnut brown hair fluttered, as if moved by a breeze, and it was so mesmerizing that Faith flinched when Buffy curled small fingers into her elbow. 

"Come with me," the blonde commanded quietly. 

Faith bristled. “Come with you where?” 

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

Faith’s hands balled into fists. “So, we’re on speaking terms again? You have some nerve asking for a private audience  _ now _ , after ignoring me for two weeks.” 

“This really isn’t the time or place for your attitude,” Buffy admonished coldly. “C’mon.” 

“You know what?” Faith rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, teeth flashing in an angry sneer. “I’m pretty freakin’ sick of you always deciding when the ‘appropriate’ time is for things.” 

“Oh, please,” Buffy sniped. “Grow the hell up.”

“Me? I’m the one who needs to grow up?”

“Yes!” 

“Really? Why? ‘Cause I refuse to take orders from  _ you _ ? Is that really so hard to believe?” 

Buffy’s lip curled. “Hard to believe?” She snorted. “Definitely not. You’ve never taken orders from  _ anyone _ .” 

“Like hell I don’t! I’ve been taking orders from the Council for years, not that you would fucking know that, you stuck up bitch!”  Faith heaved a humorless laugh at Buffy’s shocked expression, and took an aggressive step into her space, pressing closer until they were almost nose to nose. “You’re sick and traumatized, B. You’ve got the thousand yard stare. You jump at your own shadow and stare at the tv all day like a motherfucking zombie. It’s pretty obvious to everyone in this house that you’re not okay.” 

“I’m  _ fine _ , Buffy protested weakly, angrily. 

“Yeah?” Faith watched the uncertainty flicker across Buffy’s haunted, green eyes. “Well, you’ve been more than happy to let the rest of us handle things while you wallow in your feelings. You don’t just get to turn around and act like the head-bitch-in-charge whenever you fucking feel like it.” 

Buffy flinched, shoulders hunching, shrinking into herself. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The brunette scoffed. “You think I’ve never watched friends die? Is that what you think? You’re the only special snowflake who’s ever suffered in the world?” 

“Shut up!”

“I showed up to help, and all you’ve done is treat me like shit, B!” Faith growled in frustration and stepped away, shoving her wet hair out of her face. “God, it’s been years and you still treat me like the bad guy. You still act like everything is my fault.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, and then you have the fucking  _ nerve  _ to act like I don’t have legitimate reasons to be angry.” 

“Oh my god, Faith! Get over yourself!”

“No!” Faith’s raspy voice rose sharply. “I won’t! Because it’s not just me, Buffy! You’re hurting everybody! Especially your sister and your friends! You need to pull your head out of your ass and man up!” 

A single tear dripped onto Buffy’s cheek, but her eyes were as hard as diamonds. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to man up all the time if I had someone here to help me.” 

Faith’s eyes widened as the realization hit her. “You actually wanted me to stay?” 

Buffy looked away miserably. 

“I can’t believe… It’s been ages. You could’ve just said something.” 

“I knew you’d say no.” 

Faith spread her arms. “I’m here now, aren’t I? All you had to do was ask.”

“I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t blame you for wanting to leave.” The blonde coughed into her fist and sniffed. “You don’t know what it’s like, how badly I want to disappear sometimes. Like you. Just...hop on a plane and take off. But I can’t. I never could. Everybody looks to me.” A second tear splashed onto her cheek. “With all these new slayers it was supposed to get easier, but I feel like the weight on my shoulders just keeps getting heavier and heavier, and I’m...I’m  _ so  _ tired.”  

Faith swallowed. Buffy looked suddenly like the most exhausted human being in the world. The desire to reach out and touch her, to wipe the tears off her cheeks, was so strong that she couldn’t speak. She could barely resist it. 

“Maybe I’m sick and irritable and all I do is watch TV. Maybe I’ve been shitty. Fine. But you don’t know what’s it like to be the Chosen One.” Buffy’s voice dropped to a tremulous whisper. “You were never just  _ one _ .” 

“I...” The brunette paused. “...Weird.” 

Buffy glanced up sharply. “ _ Weird _ ?” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s all you have to say?” 

“Well, yeah.” Faith shrugged, and winced. She reached for her neck, came away with blood, and winced again. “I mean, it’s weird that you say that, because you’re technically right, but… I’ve only ever felt alone.” 

Buffy stared at her like she’d grown a second head. 

“What?” Faith asked, feeling a bit defensive. 

“Nothing,” Buffy coughed again. 

“I guess I just assumed you guys were buddy-buddy all the time in slayerville. It didn’t seem like things were that hard or whatever.” 

“Or whatever...” The ghost of a smile flitted across the blonde’s pale lips. 

“Yeah, you know.” Faith shrugged again, cheeks warming as she found herself growing steadily more embarrassed and inarticulate. “You’ve always had family and friends...and Giles. From the outside looking in it, at least, it seemed like a pretty sweet gig.” 

Buffy clutched at the front of her sweater, eyes dropping, roaming vacantly across the floorboards, almost sheepishly, wandering with her thoughts. “When you put it like that… I guess it is.” She glanced up, snaring Faith’s dark gaze, and a spark passed between them. “A pretty sweet gig.” 

Faith’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She closed it again. 

“Um, guys?” 

Two heads snapped back to the bloody scene on the floor as both Faith and Buffy remembered their location. Three sets of eyes stared back at them. Buffy coughed. Faith stuffed her hands in her pockets. 

Willow glared at them both in exasperation. “It is really touching that you two have finally decided to work out your differences, but you’re distracting me, and I’m not about to screw up my girlfriend’s knee because you guys have no sense of public decorum.” She jerked her head toward the stairs. “Please go away.” 

Buffy sighed and reached for Faith’s arm again. “C’mon.”

Faith huffed, but she had never been very good at refusing Buffy anything anyway. All of her obstinacy and vitriol made for a good show, but in the end she always melted for Buffy like ice in the sun. She acquiesced with a faint, indecipherable grumble, allowing the blonde to lead her away. 

Her boots left wet, snowy puddles on the old hardwood. They climbed the stairs together, without once breaking contact, and only when the older slayer had closed the door to her bedroom did she remove her hand. Faith stood awkwardly, shifting from boot to boot with ice dripping off her coat as the blonde gave her a stern once-over, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. Buffy shook her head as she padded over to her nightstand, rummaged through the top drawer, and returned with a packet of wet wipes. She removed a damp cloth and tossed the rest on the bed, pulling Faith closer so that she could dab at the bloody puncture wounds on her neck.

"I  _ told _ you not to go after him.”

"I didn't.” Faith gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the sting of antiseptic. “We stayed close. He was looking for us."

“Your neck is bruising.”

“Yeah. I probably look like a battered housewife.” 

"You should have been more careful."

"We  _ were  _ careful." 

"You could've died." Buffy pressed a little harder with the wet cloth and Faith flinched. 

“Yeah, I know. I was  _ there _ ." 

"Why aren't you more concerned about your own safety?" Buffy wiped away as much of the blood as she could see in the dark, and tossed the dirty cloth in the garbage can next to her vanity. "You're so cavalier about everything. It's like you don't care at all."

“There’s no use dwelling on it. It’s in the past now.” 

“Okay, but can we at least talk about it?”

Faith rolled her eyes, and grumbled. "Sometimes it almost sounds like you  _ do  _ care, B."

Buffy shook her head and muttered something to herself, something dark and quiet that Faith didn't recognize. Her eyes darted from side to side, losing Faith, losing the present, seeming to withdraw somewhere deep. Faith reached out, cupping her hand around the back of Buffy's neck, and the blonde returned, brown eyes and hazel eyes connecting again. Her fingers buzzed. A spark traveled up her arm, into her chest, and grew into a flame. Faith caught herself unconsciously leaning into Buffy. She squeezed quickly before letting go.

Buffy coughed again, pressing into her side with her fist where her sore ribs ached. The blonde’s eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose was running. Faith wanted to wrap her up and hold her.

She stripped out of her layers quickly, dropping her coat, sweatshirt, jeans, boots, and gloves in a soggy pile on the floor. Buffy just watched from the corner of her eye, numb, eyes raking invisible lines down her torso, down her legs. It didn’t feel the same. Did it? Faith’s body was cold, but her neck and ears were hot as she tried to remember the way they had been together back then. Buffy had always turned away, hadn’t she? From Faith’s lewd displays of skin, and loose words, casual flirting. She had always known exactly what she was doing, and Buffy had always known exactly what was going on, and neither of them had ever spoken an honest word about it. Plenty of honest fists had been thrown. That was their way.  _ This _ , whatever  _ this  _ was, was not their way. Buffy didn’t do furtive glances in the bedroom, like closeted a cheerleader sneaking glances in the locker room. 

Faith could feel Buffy’s eyes lingering around her waistline curiously, and she hastily finished with the last wet sock, peeling it off her toes, tossing it in a corner somewhere. She didn’t care if she ever saw it again. She whirled around and grabbed Buffy’s shoulders. The blonde squeaked as Faith pulled her into a tight hug, rocking her back and forth, eyes fluttering shut when she felt a hot breath exhaled into collar of her old, black shirt.

"He drank from you," Buffy mumbled, lips brushing Faith's neck. 

"...Yeah." She shivered.

"I'm sorry.” Buffy’s fingers bunched the fabric at Faith’s waist. “I should have been there."

"Did he bite you, too? Before?" 

"No, not me. But the others..." the tiny slayer shuddered. "He drank from Hilla before I escaped." 

"I'm so sorry, B."

"I hate this. I really hate this. I'm not qualified to be their leader.”

"Yeah, you are.” Faith's voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “None of this shit’s your fault." 

"It is," Buffy whispered. "Two girls are dead because I was being reckless. I almost lost you, too. I just...I suck at this."

"Whatever, we all suck at this. There’s nothing you can do, B. Girls are gonna die, and there are a lot of demons out there determined to make that happen."

Buffy started to speak, but was again consumed by her need to cough, a hard, rib-wracking cough that shook her entire frame and left her breathless for several seconds. 

Faith released her. "You should lie down." 

"God, that's all I do anymore." 

"That’s what sick people do."

“I’m sick of being sick.” Buffy donned a patented Summers mopey face and climbed into her queen-sized bed. She patted the space next to her. “You coming?”

Faith blinked. "What?"

Buffy wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked away. “You heard me.” 

“I mean, yeah, I heard you, but…”

“God, Faith, just come here before I change my mind.” She propped herself up with one of her many fluffy, patterned pillows and stared expectantly at the dark slayer. “It’s cold downstairs in the study, right?”

“Yeah…”

“So, come here and keep me warm.” 

Faith snorted softly. “Is that all I am to you, B? A heater?” 

Buffy smirked. “Are you good for something else?”

The question seemed so loaded and so uncharacteristically flirtatious that Faith blushed and glanced helplessly down at her soggy leggings. “Um… Do you have any pajamas I could borrow?” 

“In the closet, bottom drawer.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, and headed for the closet. 

“ _ So _ ,” Buffy drawled, “do you still sleep naked?” 

Faith tripped over a pile of magazines. “Ouch! Fuck!”

The blonde snickered. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“What kind of fucking question is that?” Faith shot back, bending down to paw through Buffy’s selection of pastel flannel. “Who even asks that?” 

“You just seemed so awkward asking about pajamas. I couldn’t help it.” 

“Whatever, you fuckin’ weirdo.”

She changed as quickly as she could without looking ludicrous, and clambered onto the bed next to Buffy. Her heart thumped like a drum, and she felt unbelievably self-conscious, but as soon as she was off her feet the exhaustion settled over her like a heavy blanket. She stretched her legs out in front of her, frowning at the flannel reindeer bottoms that were an inch too short, and leaned back against the headboard. Buffy patted her thigh. 

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” her voice was gruff, and she was irritated to discover that she was nervous. 

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, sure.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “It is  _ so  _ hard to be nice to you.” 

“Am I supposed to be flattered that you even bothered?”

“No, duh.” Buffy’s cute little nose was wrinkled. “It’s like, exchanging pleasantries. I’m nice to you, and you’re nice back.” 

Faith rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. You’re welcome, Buffy. Nice pajamas.” 

“God, no wonder you don’t have friends.”

“I have lots of friends,” Faith growled. “Not that you’d know anything about it.” 

Buffy crossed her arms. “You’re right, I  _ wouldn’t _ , because you went postal and dropped off the map.” 

“Did your cellphone break?” 

“That’s not the point!” 

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not like I have your number!” 

“Giles does.”

“Giles?” 

“Yeah, we talk like, every month.” 

Buffy’s eyes widened. “What?” 

“He didn’t tell you?” Buffy didn’t answer, and Faith made to stand from the bed. “You know what? Of course he didn’t. Why would he?”

“Faith…”

“No, just… I’m exhausted, and I should go.” 

“Oh, yeah, of  _ course _ you should,” Buffy said acidly. “Why break the cycle? Bail again!” 

“Why should I stay?” Faith demanded. “We can barely have a civil conversation!”  

Buffy started to protest, but choked up at the last second and coughed. When she could breathe again, her voice was weak and thick, bogged with phlegm and poorly concealed grief. 

“How come I’m not enough?” she asked. “Can’t we just work on this? Why do you always leave when I need you here?”

“You need me here?” 

“Yes!” 

The word was raw as it left Buffy’s lips, rushed, breathless, brutally and painfully vulnerable. Faith gaped at her. Their eyes were locked, bodies rigid, each afraid to move lest they be expected to react first. Buffy’s questions hung in the air between them, and Faith wasn’t sure whether she wanted to melt through the floor or pull the miserable blonde into another hug. 

“I…” Faith scratched the back of her neck, “what do you need, B?” 

“Just…” Buffy swallowed, face flushed in the dark. “Just stay.” 

“Okay.” the brunette nodded faintly. 

Without another word, Buffy folded back the covers and motioned for her to climb in. Faith assented silently, and when the blonde rolled over and snuggled back against her torso, Faith made a conscious decision not to challenge it. It was a gift. She recognized it for what it was, an olive branch, an offering of peace, an offer to rebuild the trust they had once had, however briefly, in those days before Faith ran to the Mayor with her tail between her legs. Buffy was touching her, intimately. Buffy was opening up her body again, her mind, her heart, reaching across the chasm between them hoping to make contact. Faith relented and draped her arm across Buffy’s hips as though it were the most natural thing they had ever done together. Maybe it was. They were bad at talking. They always messed it up. Maybe this was the way it should be. Faith drifted away memorizing the feel of Buffy’s body pressed into her curves, the feel of heat shared between their bodies in the frigid room, the palpitations in her chest when the other slayer shifted, nuzzling closer. She took a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling Buffy’s scent, vanilla with a sour hint of cherry cough syrup, and sighed before she could remind herself not to. 


	5. Losing Faith

The following morning dawned bright and cold. Sunlight peaked through the sheer, white drapes in the window, alighting on the furniture in Buffy’s room, a bookshelf stacked with fashion magazines and demonology texts, an overstuffed chest of drawers, an antique vanity Angel had shipped for her last birthday, the forest of perfume bottles and moisturizers arrayed on its glossy, eggshell surface. Soft sounds drifted up from the ground floor. The house was beginning to stir, and Buffy listened to them pensively, eyes fixed on the neighbor’s icy cedar-shake roof, just visible through a crack in the curtains. Her fingers slid over the expanse of empty space beside her, curling into the sheets around a single dark hair. She twirled the offending strand between her fingers and heaved an irritated sigh. Four years was a long time, but it wasn’t enough. No amount of time would be enough. Not if Faith ripped off the band aid every time the wound began to heal.

A curt knock sounded at the door and jarred her out of her thoughts.

“Buffy?” It was Dawn. “Noa’s making breakfast. You want chocolate chip pancakes?”

Oh, yeah. Noa, the beautiful, buxom young witch from Granada. Buffy wasn’t envious of her golden brown skin or her generous cup size. Nope.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat and she began to cough. It hurt more than usual. The muscles around her ribcage were so sore that she clutched her sides. The door handle turned and Dawn poked her head into the room, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

“It seems kinda weird that you’re not getting better, Buff.”

The blonde cleared her throat a few times before she trusted herself to speak. “Weirder than a slayer being sick?”

“I don’t know,” her sister admittedly honestly. “Your whole life is pretty weird.”

“I prefer the term ‘wiggy’.” Buffy used air quotes, and drew a reluctant smile from Dawn.

“Should we like, take you to the doctor or something?”

The slayer wrinkled her nose. “Eww.”

“We should just get you a frequent flyer card. I wonder if they have those?”

“Speaking of frequent fliers,” Buffy pushed herself up into a sitting position, “how’s Kennedy?”

“Sleeping,” Dawn glanced over her shoulder, “but fine. Willow completely drained herself putting that knee back together, though. Noa had to use a levitation spell to get them both back upstairs.”

“Hmm,” Buffy shivered and pulled the blanket up to her chest, “and, um...where’s Faith?”

The teenager gave her a funny look. “No idea. We thought she was with you.”

“Well, she was. Last night. She’s not in the study downstairs?”

Dawn frowned and shook her head.

“Did you check the basement?”

“No.”

Buffy climbed out of bed and donned her bootie slippers, nearly losing her balance in her haste. “Pancakes sound great, Dawnie. Tell Noa thanks.”

“Okaaaay? Sure.”

Buffy shot her glare. “Problem?”

“No. No problem.” Dawn held up her hands in surrender and backed out of the room.

/ / /

It became apparent very quickly that Faith was not her normal self. Buffy found her on the front porch, dressed in nothing but track pants and a hoodie, smoking a cigarette. Five or six crumpled filters were littered around her feet, and her eyes had a wild look in them, fixed, vacantly on some unknown point on the horizon. Buffy shivered and stepped out into the frigid Ohio morning, pulling the door shut behind her. The sounds of Dawn and Noa, chatting amicably in the kitchen faded away, and all that was left was the quiet cold, and the domestic sounds of the neighborhood waking around them.

Buffy cleared her throat, hopping on the balls of her feet to stay warm. “You were gone this morning when I woke up, and...I guess I was worried.”

If Faith heard this, she said nothing, simply put the cigarette between her lips again and inhaled. An uncomfortable gnawing sensation started up in the blonde’s abdomen. Seconds stretched into minutes, and the dark slayer, who had showed no signs that she was aware of Buffy’s presence, began to mutter to herself. Buffy stepped forward tentatively, faltered for a moment, then reached out, flicking the burning cylinder from Faith’s grip and trapped the girl’s ice cold hand in her own. Her gaze swept across Faith’s features, pink, chapped chips, red-rimmed eyes, hollowed, drawn expression.

“Faith,” Buffy implored, speaking softly, “what’s wrong?”

A bloodshot gaze snapped to hers. “Oh, hey, B. How long ya been there?” Her voice shook, and everything about it was unnerving.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy asked.

Faith looked away again. “Nothing.”

“You can tell me.”

“Yeah, and I did tell ya” she said, Boston accent making an appearance. “It’s nothing.”

Exasperated, Buffy turned and peered out into the snowy yard, searching for patience among the bushes. She hated, more than anything, that it still made her upset, because of course Faith wouldn’t tell her. Faith never trusted her with anything. Not now. Not even back then, when lies and secrets piled one atop the other, when Faith’s bravado and her curious appeal, her curious fragility, seemed like a rose and its thorns. Buffy had been all too aware of the thorns at that age, but it wasn’t their edges that frightened her. No. From the tender age of 16 Buffy had spent her free time hacking things apart with stakes and knives. Violence and aggression didn’t scare her. What scared her was weakness. Vulnerability.

Faith’s vulnerability.

Faith, who seemed, at times, to be nothing but a collection of disparate and volatile emotions, bound together loosely with a bit of string and some glue. Faith, who had lost control completely and done the unthinkable, betrayed her calling. Faith, whose gaze was too haunted, whose smile was too heavy, whose gruff, blunt manner of speech belied a raw sense of abandonment and loss. Buffy dropped Faith’s hand. Four years had changed so much, and she had to be honest with herself. Faith didn’t hide it anymore, the darkness or the weakness. She could see it plainly, and she couldn’t look away. It captivated and terrified her. Faith captivated and terrified her.

Buffy blinked back tears, steadied herself, focused on mundane details. Across the street, Mr. MacMillan was just coming out the door for work, and she gave him a small wave as he began the arduous task of scraping his icy windshield. The streets had since been plowed and treated, but a razor thin layer of ice had frozen in the yard on top of old snow, and it glittered in the weak sun. Buffy watched her breath cool into a white mist, and billow up into the air. It was so cold. There was no telling how long the other slayer had been standing on the porch. Maybe an hour. Maybe three. Buffy had the unsettling feeling that Faith wouldn’t be able to tell her if she asked.

“Is this about what happened last night?” Buffy asked instead. “Did it freak you out?”

“No, no, s’fine.” Faith turned her head. “S’fine.”

“You’re lying. Tell me what’s wrong.”

The brunette shook her head.

“Faith…”

“Nothing, B. Just some nightmares.”

“Slayer dreams?” Buffy pressed.

“No, no, just...old stuff. It’s fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Buffy grabbed the cigarette cartoon out of her hand as she went to light another. “Holy shit, your hands are freezing. Let’s go inside.”

“I’m fine,” Faith protested. “It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that.” Buffy grumbled. “Your teeth are chattering.”

Faith twitched and rolled her shoulders. “Can I have my cigarettes back, please?”

“No,” Buffy swept the discarded filters away with her shoe, “I think you’ve had enough.”

A weird, shaky grin appeared on Faith’s pale face. “I can...quit whenever I want. Hah, you always said that. Yeah… You always said that.’

Buffy blinked. Had she ever said that? She couldn’t remember a time when… No, she hadn’t. But Faith didn’t seem particularly ‘with it’. In fact, she seemed totally ‘un-with it’. A nervous dread filled Buffy’s chest and her heart rate quickened. Her breathing was getting raspy. She couldn’t quite catch her breath in the cold.

“Come inside,” she repeated. “You’re freaking me out.”

“B-”

“I said, come inside.” The blonde began to tug on her hand, and Faith resisted for just a moment before allowing herself to be lead away, willingly. “You’ll feel better once you eat something.”

When they sat down to breakfast, however, Faith didn’t eat or partake in conversation, and eventually excused herself entirely, shuffling down the hall, disappearing into the study without a word of explanation.

“Hm,” Willow said, rubbing the bags under her eyes, “that was weird.”

It was weird. Not that Faith had ever been a particularly eager participator in social norms, but even for her, it was weird. Faith never refused food. Buffy chewed on her pancakes in silence as Willow and Noa launched into dry conversation about the mechanics of Persian cloaking spells versus Nepalese vanishing charms. Which one was a more efficient use of energy? Which one was immune to detection spells? Buffy’s eyes were crossing by the time she had cleaned her plate.

“I’m going to save the rest for Ken,” Willow said, loading her plate with leftovers. “Oh, and Buff?”

“Hmm?” The blonde snapped out of a trance.

“I think we should skip patrol for a few nights. The more I read about this Dreamcatcher creep the more I’m thinking we might have to call in the big guns.”

“What?” Buffy’s nose crinkled. “Why?” The last thing she needed was moody, broody Angel in town to fuss over her.

“He’s not your typical demon. I mean, obviously.” The red witch glanced at Noa, who nodded stoically. “The essence of a hell god was artificially grafted onto his soul, and basically, he’s extra strong and extra wiggy.”

Buffy raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Define ‘wiggy’.”

“He’s got powers. Like, evil psychic powers.”

“Wait, psychic powers? For real?”

“Ya, for realzies.”

“What can he do with them?”

Willow hummed and chewed her lip thoughtfully. “The records are patchy, and if they’re accurate, his tactics have changed over the decades. The bond between his soul and the hell god is weakening and becoming more unstable. He isn’t able to read minds or move objects like he once could, but if he comes into contact with his victims, he should still be able to affect them.”

Buffy felt the blood draining from her face. “Oh, shit cakes.”

Dawn snorted. “Shit cakes?”

“Will,” she breathed, “he drank from Faith. She had puncture wounds on her neck last night.”

Noa gasped. “That is bad, very bad.” She wrung her hands. “Her mind, sus pensamientos, could be compromised.”

Buffy swallowed around the iron lump growing in the back of her throat. “How?”

“We are not sure,” Noa admitted.

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Willow soothed, squeezing the blonde’s forearm. “If anything happens, we’ll know.”

“But-”

“Let her be,” Willow said firmly. “Let her have some space. Last night was trippy in a really bad way. Let her sort it out.” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “By the way, not to change the subject, but when was the last time you showered, chica?”

Buffy’s guilty expression said it all. “Um…”

Willow clicked her tongue, and looked positively matronly as she waggled her finger. “You had better go fix that this instant, young lady.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’. You smell like old ‘stank’ and cough syrup.”

“And Faith…” she grumbled.

Willow’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

Buffy’s eyes widened. She slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Nothing! I’m going! I’m going right now!”

The blonde abandoned her food and scurried towards the stairs. Willow just watched her go, brows scrunched, mouth hanging ajar. She turned back to Dawn and Noa in bewilderment.

“What just happened?”

“No sé.” Noa shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” Dawn said, frowning, “but I don’t think I want to know.”

/ / /

It was easy enough to give them the slip. Faith climbed out the window in the study and jumped the neighbor’s fence. Her boots crunched in the snow, and she braced herself with a fist. When she straightened back up, a middle aged man in a puffy red coat, trimmed beard, and beanie was staring at her from his back porch. A cigarette dangled loosely from the corner of his mouth.

Faith cooly brushed the ice from her sleeves. “Hey, man.” She nodded.

“What are you doing in my yard?”

“Parents are jerks,” Faith hooked a thumb over her shoulder, hardly missing a beat. “Won’t let me do anything without getting on my case.”

“Uh huh,” he was still suspicious, “so, why are you in my yard?”

The slayer shrugged. “I need to get to the liquor store somehow.”

“Yeah, okay,” he dropped his filter into the snow and ground it under his heel, “how about, from now on, you stay in your own yard.”

“I was just leaving,” Faith mumbled darkly.

She let herself out through the gate.

The walk to the liquor store was a long one, but it gave her plenty of time to think without the scoobies breathing down her neck. Teenage Faith would be very disappointed with this new, adult version of herself, backing down from tough guys, backing down from Buffy, sneaking out to buy booze instead of marching out the front door in harlot-red lipstick and leather. Of course, teenage Faith had also killed people in an attempt to drown out her insecurities, and how could she forget about the daddy issues? Something about being back, about seeing Buffy again, had her asking the same questions she had supposedly settled during her years of travel. Who was she now? Who was this new, grown up slayer with impulse control and a handle on her temper? What was her place in this brave new world of international slayer militias, and organized demon hunting efforts? No longer one of two in all the world, now one at the head of an army, the tip of the spear. What kind of respect did she expect to receive for her status? What kind of rapport did she hope to build with the others? It was easy to be the stone cold badass. It was safe to be the erotic loose cannon in leather. It was really fucking hard to just be Faith, and not a sum of her parts.

Buffy had done that, summed her up, looked down her nose, curled her lip in contempt. Buffy had drawn her conclusions at 16 and seemed comfortable keeping them, against time and better evidence. And yet, now Faith doubted the older slayer’s motivations. Where teenage Buffy had been too wrapped up in Angel to pay Faith any attention, mature, grown up Buffy paid Faith a lot of attention, negative attention, criticizing her, bickering with her, demanding answers to questions that Faith absolutely did not want to answer. Even after her stint in prison, Buffy had been so absorbed in their battle with the First that she hardly treated Faith as more than a trifling annoyance. Something, somewhere, had changed.

“She’s more honest now.”

Faith froze in her tracks, soles skidding against the pavement. It was a voice she knew anywhere. Shaking, Faith turned her head until her wide, fearful eyes fell upon the woman who had spoken. Her blood ran cold.

“Diana…” The words were soft and breathy, uttered from a throat that had suddenly gone dry.

The face of her late watcher was unchanged, stern and lovely, sharp eyes glinting behind wire-framed glasses. Faith remembered every detail, down to the dimple on her left side, her widow’s peak, the wrinkles forming in her brow. The Englishwoman was dressed in her preferred attire, a hand-knit cardigan and bright blue scarf, a heavy winter skirt made of grey wool, stockings, and sensible flats. She wore her honey-brown hair short, swooping low across her brow like a bird’s wing.

“Buffy’s older now, and more mature.” Diana smiled. “She’s more direct about her feelings now, about how much she dislikes you.”

Faith flinched. “What?”

“Darling, don’t sound so shocked,” her old watcher tittered and adjusted her glasses with a wry smile. “Even if she forgives you for trying to kill Angel, who was, at the time, the love of her life, you haven’t exactly given her a reason to like you.”

“I-I…” Faith swallowed. Her hands were shaking as she stuffed them into her jacket pockets.

“Oh, dear.” Diana shook her head. “You’re just as incorrigible as you always were. What did the Council call you?”

“Difficult,” the slayer whispered.

“Quite.”

A passing car, which Faith had failed to notice at all, sprayed a wave of slush at her from a pothole in the road, startling her out of her stupor. When she looked up again, she was alone, legs trembling, too spooked to even feign annoyance about the slurry of mud and ice dripping off her shins. It took her five minutes to collect her wits, and five more to remember why she had journeyed out of the house in the first place. With shaking hands, Faith turned to face the run-down liquor store on the opposite corner. It seemed infinitely more foreboding now than it had in all her nights tromping past with Kennedy on patrol. She shifted from boot to boot, twitchy, nervous, muttering assurances to herself. A pair of kids shuffled past in flat-brimmed hats and doc martins, jerseys hanging out of their jackets. Just some locals. They exchanged skeptical glances as they made a wide berth around her.

Faith closed her eyes and forced a deep breath. “This is crazy. You look crazy. That demon got under your skin last night. Chill the fuck out.”

But when she opened her eyes again, the painted, iron bars on the shop door across the street leered at her like teeth, like fangs, like fangs sinking into flesh, and for once in her life Faith questioned her craving for whiskey.

Right. Bad idea. Alcohol plus hallucinations equals a wicked bad time. A week long bender in Taipei had taught her that. She wasn’t a kid anymore.

Murmuring under her breath, Faith began to turn around, intending to slink back home empty handed, but her foot caught on something and she tripped, landing flat on her back against the wet sidewalk. She cursed aloud in a thick, townie accent as ice water soaked her jeans and her hair. When she sat up, grumbling, rubbing the back of her head, Faith noticed that she had stumbled over a body.

“Oh, shit! I’m really fucking sorry!” She clambered forward onto her knees, intending to help the victim up off the pavement, but recoiled in horror when she caught sight of the pallid face before her.

The woman’s skin was sunken, bruised, and sickly pale, limbs splayed out, clothes stained, draped across sharp shoulders, jutting ribs and pelvic bones. Her arms were marred with track marks, purples and reds, faded yellows, sickly greens. A single needle protruded from the woman’s arm, the blade that had delivered the killing stroke.

“Ma?” Faith inched forward like a frightened child. “Ma?”

Her calls went unanswered, even as her fingers finally fumbled onto a limp arm. It was colder than ice. The slayer recoiled as if burned, hot tears bubbling and streaming down her cheeks, little tracks of fire cooling in the frigid winter air. She scrambled to her feet, staring down at her mother’s body. Adrenaline flowed into her veins, making her sick, bringing an ache to her chest. Faith had forgotten how to breathe. Memories came pouring into her shell-shocked imagination, unbidden and unwelcome, images of Christmases without gifts or decorations, apartments without heat, cupboards without food. She remembered the dark, deadly nights of passionate self-loathing, the smell of vomit and mildew and neglect, the tendrils of toxic hope slithering around her heart every time her mother ‘got clean’, the marathon vigils over a motionless body, her own tiny fingers clinging to cool, clammy skin.

“Ma, please wake up.”

She remembered the rotating cast of deadbeat, user boyfriends. She remembered fighting off the handsy ones, the violent ones, with fists, with teeth, with the knife she stole from Fred Mincelli’s shop. Sometimes her ma felt bad when she came down, and sometimes she’d take Faith out to breakfast at Denny’s as an apology, but the waitresses gave them dirty looks, and the other guests stared, at her mother’s sunken cheekbones and Faith’s thrift store clothes. When Faith got older she got angry, and then they didn’t go out together anymore, because if she wanted to people to stare at her all day she’d get her own exhibit at the zoo.

So, they could go fuck themselves.

“Excuse me, dear,” a kindly voice, accompanied by a warm pressure on her shoulder, called out to her, “are you alright?”

Faith flinched, jerking away, crossing her arms over her chest instinctively. An elderly black woman in a yellow dress,sun hat, and fur coat stood frowning at her with unmistakable concern. Why was she dressed so nice? Was that a church hat? Was it Sunday?

“S-s-sorry,” Faith stuttered. Her jaw was chattering violently. “You s-startled me.”

Kind eyes swept across her features. “Don’t fret, dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you alright?”

Faith bit her lip. “Are you…”

“...Am I?”

The slayer hesitated. “Are y-you real?”

“Well, of course I’m real, sugar.” The woman’s voice was crisp and sassy, in the most pleasant and matronly way. “What kind of question is that? Have you been takin' them drugs, darlin’?”

“N-no,” Faith chattered, hugging herself tightly.

The kindly woman stepped closer and lowered her voice, pulling them both aside on the sidewalk, away from casual ears. “Tell me what’s wrong, sugar.”

“N-nothing.”

“You’re shaking like a palm tree in a hurricane, girl! Where do you live?”

“31st and J-J-Jefferson.”

“Alright, you come with me.” The woman looped her arm through Faith’s and tugged. “We're going to get you home.”

Faith just nodded anemically.

“You can call me Bea. What's your name?"

"Faith."

"Oh, my!" Bea smiled. "What a pretty name!"

Faith nodded. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks, sliding into her collar. Her mind was getting louder. Voices, images, sounds, swirling, flickering, fading in and out. Dreamcatcher. Dreamcatcher. Why did they call him the Dreamcatcher? Faith pressed her fists into her eye sockets and fought an overwhelming urge to sink to her knees. She didn’t have long. She knew she didn’t have long. She could feel Bea’s hand on her arm, leading gently, could feel her boots trudging forward, one foot in front of the other, but she was losing. It was too much. She was losing.

She staggered and tripped, and somewhere she could hear Bea calling to her, could feel her knees crunching against concrete. The pain made her lucid long enough to rip the cell phone from her jacket pocket and thrust it toward the kindly woman.

“Call Giles!”

Faces approached, swarmed her vision. Bodies appeared, littering the street around her. Casualties. Friends. Collateral. Tears blurred her vision and she tried desperately to catch her breath.

“Faith, did you get the money I left you?” The Mayor’s earnest face peered at her between Bea’s stocking-clad legs. “You were like a daughter to me. I want you be happy.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” Words poured out of her like water from a breaking dam. “I don’t deserve your money.”

He smiled, and it was as if no time had passed. Receding auburn hair and a clever smile, a lilting, teasing tone, sharp eyes twinkling at her.

“It’s okay, Faithy. I understand why you did it.”

“No, no no no no. Boss, I didn’t mean it. Boss!”

He reached out and took her hand, still quivering, bloody for reasons she couldn’t place. “I always knew how you felt about her.”

“What?”

Faith gasped, and the Mayor was gone, replaced instantly by Alan Finch’s pale, sweating face. He choked and blood oozed from the cracks between his teeth, dribbled from his lips onto the sidewalk, locked in his dying throes. A bloody stake rolled from Faith’s hand into the gutter where it clattered into the sewer. The sound echoed in her head as more corpses appeared, dozens of slayers, bodies broken, twisted, lifeless eyes fixed on her like fingers, pointing, accusing. Robin, crawling on his hands and knees in a mint green hospital gown, wires and tubes trailing behind as he reached out to her, eyes bloodshot and scared. And then Buffy, standing over her with that awful knife, and a face full of hate.

Faith began to scream.

Strong arms gripped her shoulders, hauling her up off the ground. The sunlight blinded her, and the bodies vanished. As she struggled, her vision cleared, and she found herself gazing into Bea’s anxious face. Faith was pulled back into a warm chest, a small, warm chest.

"Hold her tight, Ken."

Buffy?

Faith's head lolled to the side, and she was half pulled, half carried away from Bea. A pewter grey Jeep twinkled in the street under the bright, December sun.

"She's fine, Buff."

"I don't want her to start freaking out again. We're drawing too much attention as it is."  The blonde gestured to a small crowd that had gathered on the opposite sidewalk, necks craning curiously around the humming vehicle.

"Is she gonna be okay?" Bea's voice was strained and tight. "What's the matter with her?"

"My cousin has some, uh...mental health issues," Buffy said, fumbling for something plausible. "She gets like this sometimes if she doesn't take her meds."

"Hm, so it was drugs after all."

"Sorry?"

"Never mind, dear. You take care of her."

Faith continued to mutter and shake as they opened the rear passenger door and loaded her inside. Giles was waiting behind the wheel, knuckles clenched, jaw working nervously on a peppermint candy. Kennedy rode shotgun, and Buffy climbed in next to Faith, who was now so overwhelmed that she couldn't still the tremors seizing her body. It was impossible to tell which voices were real, and there were so many of them, forming a clamorous din that ebbed and flowed in painful swells. A slender hand cupped her cheek, gripped her arm, and guided her body until she was lying down, head resting on a pair of thighs. Buffy peered down at her through the maelstrom and spoke clear, ringing words.

"It's gonna be okay, Faith." Callused hands stroked the hair from her face, thumb lingering, then sliding again. "I've got you."

"Is she hyperventilating?" Giles' voice floated in from somewhere far away, somewhere beyond the tunnel of clarity around Buffy's face.

"Yes," the blonde turned until only her neck and chin were visible from below. "and she's shaking really bad."

“I have the syringe.”

“We can’t sedate her in the car. I can’t even hold her still.”

“So, just like, stick it in there or something.”

“Ken!”

“I’m afraid Buffy’s right. We can’t very well risk it in the car. She’ll just have to hold out until we get home.”

“Yeah, but look at her, she’s practically going into shock.”

“Buffy, can you handle it?”

“Yes.” A warm hand caressed Faith’s skin. “I’ve got her.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure, alright?” Buffy’s response was clipped, flustered, as Faith began to convulse. “Just drive!” She leaned down over the brunette and began to whisper, fingers threading into hair, coiling, and tugging. “I’m here, Faith. I’m here. It’s gonna be okay. You’re going to be alright.”

“Buf...Buffy?” Faith’s voice was raspy, thin, more pleading than inquiry.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Buffy...Buffy…” The dark slayer was grasping at reality now, like a slick, oiled rope sliding through her hands. “B...I’m sorry.”

Soft fingers caressed her brow. “For what?”

“I’m sorry… that I left.”

Her voice was little more than a dry whisper, but it was heard very clearly by everyone in the car. Buffy felt her cheeks heating up as Kennedy swiveled in the front seat.

“Holy shit, is she dying?”

“No, Ken. Shut up!”

“This sounds like a confession in a movie, though, doesn’t it?”

“Oh my god, Kennedy!” Buffy exclaimed, exasperated. “Could you be any more obnoxious?”

“Sorry, jeez.”

Faith wheezed a little, and both girls waited with baited breath for her to speak again. When she did, her words were thick and remorseful, stripped of bravado, laid bare. Even Giles, focused on the road in front of him, was listening intently, glancing at them surreptitiously in the rearview mirror.

“I left because I was scared, B…” Faith’s hazy eyes filled with tears, locked tight with Buffy’s. “There’s just something about us... Why do we always fight?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“I hate it,” Faith confessed tearfully, “I really fucking hate it. I keep trying to wrap my head around this, but I can’t.” The brunette shuddered and twitched again, clutching tightly balled fists against her chest. “We’re the original two, B. I just...I just...I just don’t want you to hate me anymore. It hurts.”

Kennedy’s eyes widened slowly as the color drained from Buffy’s face. The blonde swallowed hard. Her fingers were coiled in brown hair. Her chest was done up in knots. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, even as the whole car seemed to be waiting for her response. Faith was fading fast, eyes rolling around in her head like marbles as they flicked from corner to corner. She was painfully aware of Kennedy’s intense focus, of her watcher’s furtive gaze in the mirror, and yet, something had to be said. She bent down to whisper in Faith’s ear.

“I never hated you.”

 


	6. Think of Something

Willow removed the smooth, black seer stone from Faith's chest and shuddered. Her eyes were narrowed and dark as she drew away, scattering the ring of white sand arranged around the slayer's body on the basement floor. A tense silence had fallen over the room, and the strain only increased as Buffy waited for Willow to finish clearing away her pentagram. Footsteps thumped on the floorboards overhead, Giles pacing restlessly in the kitchen on his cell phone, conducting business meetings across half a dozen time zones. When this was all over, he would be forced to return to London, where he was needed by the organization. He would extend the offer to Buffy to join him, again. She would decline, again.

General Buffy was retired. She was content being a foot soldier, for now.

"This is bad."

Buffy glanced up at her friend, drawn expression barely visible in the dim candlelight. “How bad, Will?”

Willow collapsed back against the clammy, concrete wall, prevaricating between a litany of possible responses, some more honest than others. “I was better prepared this time, after looking into your memories before, but…” the witch sighed, “this is freaky. I’m wigging out, Buff.”

“You should’ve see her when we picked her up,” the blonde replied stoically, setting her ritual candle aside, “although I guess Kennedy must’ve shared some of the details.”

“A few. She wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.”

“Weird,” Buffy grumbled. “She wouldn’t shut up in the car.”

Willow huffed. “I know you don’t like her, but-”

“I like her fine, Will.”

“Only because of me.”

“I mean, well, yeah, but she’s grown on me these last couple years.” Buffy shrugged. “Not saying I get the attraction, but hey, she’s totally loyal.”

The redhead rolled her eyes. “Anyway…”

“Right, tell me what we’re dealing with.”

Willow tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and sucked on it pensively for a long moment. "The venom has almost completely destroyed the mental barriers that keep Faith’s memories separate from the present. Specifically bad memories." The witch sighed and folded her legs beneath her, fingers plucking nervously at the end of her flowing skirt. "It's moving fast. It'll destroy her prefrontal cortex in less than a week."

Buffy tensed. "What does that mean?"

"In short, it means that she won't be able to tell what's real and what's imagined." Willow rubbed her palm into her eye, making all the more apparent her level of exhaustion. "She's literally going insane."

"Insane?" Buffy echoed, aghast.

"Yup," Willow twirled a finger around her temple, "we're talking hallucinations, voices, flashbacks, a general blending of the past and present, not to mention paranoia-"

"Stop! I get it!" Buffy held up a hand, voice cracking. "How do we fix it?"

The witch seemed to deflate, like a train running out of steam in front of a long, steep climb. "That’s the wiggy part. I don't know."

“We need to call a meeting,” Buffy mused, “maybe a research party.”

“Noa has been communicating with her coven in Granada. They’re trying to find answers for us.” Willow hunched forward, bringing her legs up and resting her forehead against her knees. “I know she means a lot to you, Buff, but we’re racing against time here. If we can’t stop the venom there’s no telling what kind of state she’ll be in.”

“You’re not saying what I think you’re saying…”

“I am.”

“How could you even suggest that?” Buffy asked darkly, fingers reaching instinctively for Faith’s limp hand.

“It would be the merciful thing to do.” Willow’s strained response was muffled.

“But that would be murder!”

The red witch raised her head and leveled a sobering glare across the circle. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I... I-”

“Buffy, I don’t suggest that sort of thing lightly.” Willow’s expression turned to one of anguish. “You know that, don’t you? I’m not a killer. I don’t want to do it.”

Tears formed in the slayer’s eyes. “I know.” She crawled forward, climbed over Faith, and settled next to Willow against the wall. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up with me lately.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Willow mumbled. “I’m stressed out and freaked out, and I don’t wanna send Kennedy out there again. I don’t think I could handle losing her, Buff.”

Buffy threw her arm around the redhead’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I know.”

“I know you know.”

“I know you know you I know.”

They giggled together softly and sniffled, breaking the melancholy spell that had fallen over the room for the briefest moment. Willow rested her head against Buffy’s bony shoulder, shifting around, trying to find a comfortable spot. It was a spot she never found. The footsteps upstairs had ceased, but they could hear the TV now, and low voices. Buffy closed her eyes and blocked them out, dulling her slayer senses through sheer force of will. She wasn’t ready to face them yet.

Faith stirred on the floor. Her fingers twitched, and her eyelids fluttered. She was waking from the spell.

“Are you going to tell her?”

Willow’s gentle voice pierced the gloom, drawing Buffy back out of her thoughts. “About what? The psychosis stuff?”

Her question was met with patient silence.

“Will…?”

“No, not that.”

“So...then what?”

“I dunno,” Willow began slowly, “maybe why you’re so mad that she left?”

Buffy’s shoulders tensed. “What do you mean? She ditched us again. It should be obvious.”

“Ditched us? Or ditched you?” Willow used her resolve face. “And don’t you dare lie to me. I’ve been inside your head, remember?”

Buffy squirmed. “Sometimes I manage to forget.”

The redhead chewed her thumbnail pensively. “I tried not to be too invasive, but it’s hard to block out everything. Some things are so loud, it’s like someone is screaming them at you. It’s impossible to ignore.”

The blonde winced. “What did my head scream about?”

Willow took a deep breath. “Loneliness.”

Buffy looked away. “What’s that got to do with Faith?” she asked tonelessly.

“Well,” Willow hesitated, “if looks could kill…” She heaved a sigh. “Oh, I dunno, Buff. You look at Faith like she kicked your cat, like, really, really kicked it. Not just kicked it a little bit because the cat bit her or something, but really just put her whole foot into it, you know? Like she wanted to hurt it.”

“I don’t have a cat, Will.”

“I don’t mean a literal cat, obviously. The cat is like a metaphor.”

Buffy scrunched her nose, growing defensive. “A metaphor for what?”

“For your...well, for your heart.” The redhead trailed off, picking nervously at a split end. “You know, for you. Buffy.”

Her words were met with heavy silence. Anxious that she had finally said something just a little too bold, Willow turned, mouth open, ready to take it all back, wash it away with mindless chatter, but the words failed her. Buffy’s eyes were wet.

“God damnit, Will.” she sucked her lip between her teeth.

“A-are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Buffy sniffed, and wiped her eyes. “Just, she really did kick my cat.”

“I know.”

“And That’s a really stupid metaphor.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Buffy lamented. “I don’t know what this means. I don’t even want to think about what this means.”

“Jeez, me neither. I’d kick her back if it were me,” Willow rolled her eyes, “but it’s your cat. You’ve gotta decide what to do about it. Just, you know,” she patted Buffy’s knee softly, “she may not have long. You should tell her before it’s too late.”

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t...I don’t even know what I know.”

“Aw, Buff.” The redhead smiled. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I overthink everything,” the slayer grumbled. “That’s my job.”

“Yeah, but some things are really simple.” Willow gave the blonde’s knee an encouraging pat.

“This isn’t simple.’

“Sure, it is. You just have to be brave enough to ask yourself the hard questions.”

“Are you calling me chicken?”

“I am,” Willow replied sternly, then giggled. “You know, for someone who spends her time killing demons, I’m surprised you’ve been so conflict-avoidy about this.”

“Demons are easy, Will.” Buffy’s head fell back against the wall. “People are hard.”

“True story.”

“I don’t know what to say to her.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re Buffy Summers.” Willow offered a sly grin. “You always think of something.”

/ / /

They held a tactical meeting in the kitchen over a box of pizza and a bottle of syrah. Noa preferred wine to almost all other beverages and blamed her Spanish heritage for it, not that Giles, or the others for that matter, were really complaining. It was nice to do classy things sometimes. Dawn left the tv on in the living room, and the local news anchors could be heard puzzling over the recent wave of crime in downtown Cleveland, a rash of homicides and kidnappings, bodies found with their throats ripped out, drained of blood. The murder rate had tripled in less than a month, and the locals were blaming some kind of covert drug war for the violence. Police officers patrolled the city in body armor and riot gear, angered citizens threw bottles and trash at the courthouse, and the governor of Ohio was threatening to call in the National Guard. The situation was escalating, and it was forcing Giles’ hand. He would have preferred to take more time studying the enemy, getting to know its habits, weaknesses, calling in additional forces to help. Moving too hastily was an efficient way to get his girls killed, but Faith was getting weaker, and they were running out of time.

He called the group to order as Kennedy finished clearing away the dishes.

“Alright. Status updates.” Giles grabbed a pen and a legal pad. “Who wants to go first?”

“We’re stocked with food and supplies.” Dawn tossed a receipt on the table.

She and Kennedy had raided the grocery store earlier, battling long lines and depleted shelves with other nervous, Cleveland residents. The fridge and pantry were now crammed with several flats of bottled water, vegetables, potatoes, canned food, a 20 lbs sack of rice, pasta, eggs, two weeks’ supply of yogurt (for Buffy), flour, salt, sugar, yeast, and a variety of frozen goods. Their stock included a surplus of flashlights, lanterns, batteries, oil, water filters, a camping stove, and medical supplies, all of which was piled in the living room next to the Christmas tree.

“I picked up extra rounds for the rifles,” Kennedy added, the only one in the room who was fond of guns. “I also grabbed a couple side arms, just in case.”

Giles winced. “Thank you, Kennedy.”

“You’ll be glad we have them someday.”

“I’m sure.” The watcher glanced around the table. “What else?”

Noa jumped in with her thick Andalusian accent. “I placed protective charms around the house, and I made some necklaces with locating spells for everyone to wear.” She indicated the pile of leather cords in the center of the table, each fitted with a heavy, carved bead of ivory or bone. “There is a gem on every necklace. We can used them to find everyone, in case of a separation.”

“Tribal,” Dawn murmured, reaching out to take one.

The others followed suit, slipping the leather thongs around their necks. Giles waited until everyone had finished tucking their new jewelry under the collars of their sweaters before pressing on.

“Kennedy, are the vehicles ready?”

“Stocked and fueled,” she responded smartly. “I loaded the garage with extra cans of gas just in case.”

“Excellent. We can use that for the generator if need be. Buffy? Willow? Any updates on Faith’s condition?”

“Stable, but still deteriorating.” Willow glanced at her best friend, whose glum expression spoke for both of them. “The venom from the dreamcatcher’s bite is tearing down the mental barriers that prevent reality, memory, and dreams from overlapping. In other words, auditory and visual hallucinations.”

“How is she now?”

“Sedated. I used the chains in the basement to make sure she won’t go anywhere if she wakes up.”

“Alright.” Giles nodded stoically. “Is the damage permanent?”

“There’s no way to tell, but it’s serious.” Willow’s voice grew softer. “I give her a week before she’s beyond our help.”

A hush fell over the table. Buffy’s head slipped into her hands. She was too tired to hide her feelings on the subject. She was coming unglued, and it was obvious how it affected the others. Their nervous glances were deafening, twisted mouths, shifting feet, and wringing hands. She was supposed to be a slayer. The guilt was heavy. Her grief pressed down like a boulder, like a bear on her chest. Buffy dug her nails into her cheeks. Her chest ached.

A strong hand settled on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’ll be alright, Buffy.”

She couldn’t bring herself to respond.

“Do we have any idea how to fix it?” Giles gazed at the stricken faces around him. “Any idea at all?”

“...There is a possible solution,” Willow began hesitantly, “but I can’t guarantee anything. I’m just going off a hunch.”

“Enlighten us, please.”

The red witch swallowed hard, glancing at Noa for support. “We found something in a slayer journal. It’s a recipe for an antivenom, kind of. It sounds like it could work, but it calls for the blood of the demon.”

The watcher’s expression was inscrutable. “How much?”

“It’s not exactly...specific.”

“Alright. As much as we can get, then.” He scribbled something on his notepad. “Do you have everything else you need? Do you need to restock any ingredients.”

“Just a couple of things,” Willow replied thoughtfully, “but they won’t take long to get.”

“Can you get them tonight?”

“Probably.”

“Good.” Giles’ posture straightened. He was immensely relieved to have a plan. “Take Noa and Kennedy with you. Take your phones and the radios, and…” his mouth twisted, “...take one of the guns with you.”

“I carry one with me everywhere,” Kennedy volunteered proudly. “Already covered.”

The watcher grimaced, then nodded curtly, “Fine.”

“Trust me, G,  you’ll thank me some day.”

“Unfortunately, I think you might be right.” He turned to Willow. “I’m summoning some reinforcements. Competent as Buffy and Kennedy are, we are outnumbered and outmatched.”

“That’s fine with me.” She glanced furtively at Buffy. “It’s not me you need to worry about.”

The trio gathered their things and left in a hurry, grabbing the keys off the granite countertop as they tromped out the door in boots and hats. Only Buffy and her sister now remained at the table with the beleaguered Englishman.

Dawn fixed the watcher with a pointed frown.

“How am I meant to interpret that?” he asked shortly, directing a finger at himself.

“Oh, you know exactly what it means.” Dawn rolled her eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not bringing in backup slayers, if that’s what you’re implying. The last thing these vampire cultists need is more food.” He sniffed. “I’ll call in some favors.”

“Good,” Dawn nodded. “Okay, c’mon Buffy. Bedtime.”

A mumbled refusal was the only response she got out of her grief-stricken older sister, but if Dawn was anything, she was obnoxiously persistent.

“Buffy. Up. Now.”

“Dawnie, I don’t...”

“What would Mom say if she were here?”

That was the trump card. Buffy slid bonelessly out of her seat and allowed Dawn to lead her toward the stairs.

“We’ll see you in the morning, G.”

/ / /

Buffy went to visit Faith the following afternoon while the witches prepared their spell ingredients, blending and bagging them together for ease of use. Willow had tasked Kennedy and Dawn with wiring smoke bombs and silver-laced shrapnel grenades, and the job was difficult enough that both were silent, for once, hunched over the kitchen table with furrowed brows. Giles was out and about somewhere, meeting with some “hired muscle”. Everyone was busy, which left Buffy with nothing to do.

She descended the stairs in thick socks, plate of pizza in one hand, bottle of water in the other. The wooden planks creaked underfoot, and when she reached the basement, a new scent had mingled with the smell of musty dryer sheets and sweat.

Faith.

“Hey.” She was awake, perched on her bunk, passing a ratty tennis ball back and forth between each hand.

“Hey.” Buffy eyed the manacles around her wrists with trepidation. “That wasn’t my idea, by the way.”

The brunette nodded.

“But Willow was afraid you’d hurt yourself or something...try to run away.”

“S’cool.” Faith looked down, and a heavy, awkward silence settled over them.

“So...um...you hungry?”

The brunette just shrugged, shoulders twitching a bit, as they seemed wont to do in the last 48 hours. She was dressed more casually than Buffy had ever seen her, in an oversized Patriots hoodie that feel to her thighs and black leggings that were threadbare around the kneecaps. Her face was completely bare, cleaned meticulously of dirt and smeared eyeliner, but her cheeks were still puffy, and her eyes were still red, and Buffy didn’t think that Faith had ever seemed so exhausted before.

It made her chest hurt.

“U-um…”

“Are you real?” Faith asked suddenly, head cocked to the side.

Buffy felt a chill run down her spine. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

“Okay, well…” she bit her lip. “I don’t really know how to do that...but...I guess since I’m here I should say that I’m sorry.”

Faith’s wary expression changed to one of bewilderment. “For what?”

Buffy sighed heavily. “For being a bitch to you, like, all the time.”

Faith gaped at her.

“I’m serious.”

“Well, I mean, you weren’t....not all the time…” the brunette echoed distantly. “Sometimes you just ignored me.”

Buffy winced, and shuffled awkwardly. Faith had her there. Aside from Dawn and Willow, most of her conversations occurred with demons, and she was better at hurling insults and bad puns than she was at effectively communicating with other human beings.

She glanced down at the plate in her hand.

“Mind if I sit?”

Faith scooted over, chains clinking lightly, and patted her sleeping bag.

“Thanks.” Buffy’s smile was more of a wince. “I swear I’m real.”

“I know you are.” Faith rolled her eyes. “Imaginary Buffy would never apologize for anything.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” She folded her legs underneath her. “So, what’s imaginary Buffy like?”

Faith selected the largest slice of pizza on the plate and took an enormous bite. “Mm...stabby.” She swallowed. “Angry. Threatens to kill me a lot.”

“I’m sorry. Again.”

“Don’t be.” Faith liberated the plate from Buffy’s hands and cracked the seal on the water bottle. “It’s ancient history, and I was a fucking headcase back then.”

An errant memory filtered into Buffy’s head, of fiery brown eyes, and a pinched expression. Red lips moving. White teeth flashing. Always at night, beneath the trees and the stars, flitting between headstones. She recalled the feeling of leather and denim in her hands, the scent of smoke and cologne that always lingered around the brunette, even when she seemed much too young, her face too soft, to be that hard. Faith had moved like a dark storm through Buffy’s world, with flashes of brilliant, white light, and the crash of thunder on her heels. It has always been such a shock, the turnaround, like a door slamming in her face.

“So, was I,” she admitted heavily. “You showed up in town and we all acted like jerks. You were just so…” Buffy paused, sucking her lip between her teeth as she searched for the right word. “Scary.”

“Scary?” Faith twitched and tried to play it off by stretching her arm. “I’m not scary.”

“You were back then.” Buffy frowned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Faith’s eyes darted away from a spot in the corner. “Just need to ignore it. It’ll go away.” She demolished another slice of pizza and wiped her hands on her leggings.

“What do you see?”

The brunette flinched. “How ‘bout we don’t talk about it, ‘kay, B?” She shuddered and set the plate aside. “I don’t feel good. How old was that pizza?”

“We got it last night.”

Faith wiped her eyes and shuddered, hands straying instinctively to cover her ears, but it didn’t seem to help. Buffy glimpsed the expression on her face and guessed what it meant. She reached out and wrapped her arms around Faith’s shoulders, pulling her in against her chest, threading her fingers into wavy brown hair.

“C’mere.”

“What the hell, B?”

“Just stay still.”

“No, let me go.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Would you just chill for a minute? I’m trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not.” Faith made as to push away, but her arms quivered, giving her away, and she relented, rubbing her nose into the collar of Buffy’s shirt. “Jesus, you piss me off.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Buffy replied drily.

She massaged her fingertips into Faith’s scalp, and the younger slayer sighed, biting down on an incriminating moan. Buffy’s skin tingled. Every hair on her head stood on end. She leaned back heavily against the cold, concrete wall.

“Have you figured it out yet?”

Buffy swallowed. “F-figured what out?”

“Why we fight?”

“I- um…no...”

“I’ve been down here thinking about it all day.” Faith’s eyes fluttered shut. “Maybe I’m just going crazy. I can’t control my thoughts anymore. They just fly in and out of my head, like I’m some sort of psycho bird house. I don’t fucking know.

“Don’t call yourself that.” Buffy’s throat felt thick and swollen, voice hoarse as she forced the words out “You’re not psycho.”

Faith continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I mean, I have my own ideas, but they’re fucking crazy. Crazy, B. I think I’m losing my shit.”

The blonde had no answer, but her nerve endings buzzed like live wires as chapped lips pressed the lightest kiss against her bare collarbone. The air in her lungs felt thinner.

“Oh, wow…”

“I know.”

“Wow...”

“Yeah.”

“Is this...?”

“I don’t know, B. Jesus! Why the fuck would I know?”

Buffy swiped the pad of her thumb across Faith’s cheek and shivered. “Oh my god.”

“I’m sorry,” Faith groaned. “I’m sorry.”

Buffy didn’t know what for, but she was too afraid to ask, head lolling back against the wall, fingers digging firmly into brown tresses. A light pressure returned to her skin, just below her clavicle, lips brushing, then sweeping a path of sparks up to her throat. Her breath hitched. Her chest jumped. She pulled harder at dark roots, and Faith made a strange little noise, strangled, like a voice being muffled with a hand. The tips of Buffy’s fingers had begun to throb, almost painfully. Her jaw fell slack, mouth ajar, heart rate spiking and lungs shuddering. She became aware of Faith shivering. She became aware of a hand behind her ear, and the length of a cold chain slithering over her shoulder, and by this point she was almost positive that her entire body had caught fire.

The sound of the door being thrown open at the top of the stairs jarred them both out of a stupor. Faith tried to untangle her limbs, but the blonde’s muscles had taken on the consistency of pudding. Without her cooperation, the brunette’s attempt at escape was awkward and ostensibly unsuccessful.

“Buffy!” Dawn’s voice carried into the basement. “You down there?”

“Yeah, Dawnie, what is it?”

“They’re getting ready to go! They need you up here!”

She took a steadying breath, recovering from a daze, and glanced down at Faith. “I guess duty calls.”

Her mind was already screaming. Pretend it didn’t happen! Pretending is good. Yeah, do that. Faith seemed to be on the same wavelength, she withdrew and pulled herself upright, brushing her hair out of her face with practiced nonchalance.

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

Buffy tried to smile. “Don’t wait up.” 


	7. Heavy Artillery

Dressed head to toe in black, wool caps pulled low over their ears, the slayers scaled the side of an old, brick warehouse on a rusty ladder. Long gone were the days when Buffy fought in her street clothes, breaking heels, shredding her best shirts and jackets. The weather in Cleveland was inclimate, to put it delicately, and she had long abandoned any hope for a normal, boring life. She had buried those dreams in the crater formerly known as Sunnydale, shedding any pretenses that remained on the subsequent bus ride through the California desert. By the time they had reached Ohio, she had embraced her calling more fully than ever before. She did not go to the mall to buy dresses and shoes. Instead, she drove to REI with Angel’s corporate card and bought climbing gear, hunting knives, boots, gore tex pullovers, Carhartt jackets, leather gloves, and camo pants. She had returned home to find Xander tearing apart the old kitchen, already hard at work on the remodel, and when he had paused long enough to take a good look at her, he had called her a soldier. Buffy Summers was a soldier now, and she dressed for war.  

Kennedy hauled herself over the last metal rung and thrust out a hand to help the blonde up. Then they were moving, creeping off across the rooftop to the far wall. Buffy’s lungs protested against the cold as she moved, and her chest was already sore. She crouched down with Kennedy on the north side and did all she could to hide her discomfort.

They had gone over the plan again and again, ad infinitum. Because the Dreamcatcher was at least, in physical form, a human, they were using a wholly new strategy, one that didn’t generally aid them in the fight against demons with hell-powers and magics, one that she wasn’t comfortable with at all. It wasn’t that Buffy resisted change. She was more subtle now than in her youth, growing shrewder and craftier every year, studying military tactics and employing new techniques, bending the rules, blurring the lines, and yet, her stomach churned as she watched Kennedy clear away some snow and set her duffle bag down on the rooftop.

“I can’t believe Giles let you bring that thing.”

“Well, what else were we gonna do? Use the crossbow?”

“Gosh, I don’t know,” Buffy’s nerves bled through in her hushed, irritated tone, “maybe not encourage the demons to beef up their arsenal?”

“It doesn’t have to be a regular thing.” Kennedy peered over the ledge and scanned the vacant lot down below.

If only it were that simple. The eldest slayer had picked up so many fighting techniques from her enemies over the years, was it such a leap to assume that they were also capable of learning new tricks?

“I would like to insert a comment here about slippery slopes,” Buffy whispered tartly.

The brunette just shrugged. “Insert whatever you want, wherever you want. Still doesn’t change the fact that none of you could come up with a better idea.”

“You lobbied pretty hard for your plan.”

“Because I know it’ll work.” The slayer checked her watch. “There’s only two of us, and you’re still sick, so we have to minimize the hand to hand combat. Besides, we’re running out of time.”

Buffy flushed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Did I say that?” Kennedy rolled her eyes. “Jeez, defensive much?”

They didn’t work together often, and Buffy was starting to remember why. Being the only two veterans stationed in Cleveland, it was fairly convenient to divide up the training responsibilities between them so as to keep their on the job collaboration to a minimum, but there were also working relationships to consider, and the fact that Willow was intent on keeping the blunt, bullish, tactless New Yorker around indefinitely. She ground her teeth and reminded herself, rather forcefully, that it would be a bad idea to punch her associate while they were on a mission.  

“You have no idea how effective this technology will be against a demon-hybrid,” she argued instead.

“I know it’ll work. I’ve shot him before, remember?” Kennedy moved away from the ledge. “And anyway, why not try it out? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“You say that like Faith’s not chained up at home talking to dead people.”

“Okay, okay, calm down.”

“I am perfectly calm!”

“Yeah,” Kennedy rolled her eyes, “just focus on the mission okay? We don’t need anyone else getting hurt.”

“Fine.”

They fell silent for a moment, each scanning for movement in the dark.

“There,” Buffy whispered, pointing out over the edge of the rooftop.

“Looks like playtime’s over.” Kennedy reached for the bluetooth device on her ear. “We’ve got eyes on the target.”

A voice crackled through the speaker. “Line up the shot.”

Kennedy quietly unzipped her duffel bag and removed the long, slender barrel of a military grade sniper rifle. Next, she removed the body of the gun, pre-assembled at the house, and attached the barrel and silencer. When this was finished, she hefted the rifle onto her shoulder and began adjusting her scope. Buffy, meanwhile, continued to watch the approaching figures through a pair of sturdy binoculars. Her slayer vision was sharp enough to forego the night vision goggles distributed to the rest of the gang. The slayers were perched on top of a warehouse, peering into an empty lot across the frozen alley. Snow had begun to fall again, and there was a winter storm in the forecast. They had to finish this operation before visibility became an issue.

On cue, three, tall figures slunk out of the dark alley and crossed into the vacant lot. The watcher’s promised reinforcements had arrived in the form of Dimitri, Mikhail, and Alexei, brothers from revolutionary era Russia, and vampires. It was unknown what favors they owed Giles, who had collected many dubious and enigmatic allies in recent years, but whether she trusted them or not, Buffy didn’t have much of a choice. They were lean on friends, and short on time. The brothers waited silently as a second group approached, emerging from the shadows on the far side of the lot. They were vampires, dressed rather boldly in burgundy robes, cowls pulled over their heads. Metal gauntlets and boots peeked out beneath heavy fabric. In their midst stood the dreamcatcher, tall and deadly in his usual attire of black leather. The company moved swiftly, only the faint click of armor announcing their arrival.

“What the hell is with those medieval outfits?” Kennedy asked.

“Ceremonial dress, I believe.”

Buffy spoke into her microphone. “There are vamps stationed on the perimeter. Two northside facing the street.”

“Roger.”

Voices crackled down the line as the dreamcatcher and his minions approached the three brothers. The company halted and arranged itself into a square, surrounding their leader in the center. The vampire cultists raised their fists in unison and spoke together.

“Hail, Antislayer.”

“Hail, Antislayer,” the brothers repeated solemnly.

Willow’s voice echoed clearly through the channel. “Almost ready. Target is in sight.”

Kennedy peered down the length of her sniper barrel. “We’ll wait for your signal.”

“Give us an ETA, Will.” Buffy glanced down at her watch.

“Five minutes.”

“Roger.”

Meanwhile, on the ground, the front line of cultists had knelt down in the mud and snow, giving their master a clear view of the Russian trio. A hush fell over the group as he studied them, crimson eyes burning like fiery lanterns in the dark. A minute passed in silence, snowflakes gathering on his muscular shoulders. At last, he elected to speak.

“State your names.”

“Alexei.”

“Mikhail.”

“Dimitri.”

“What is your business with me?”

Mikhail, not the oldest, but the tallest, spoke first. “We have information to sell.”

The dreamcatcher cocked his head to the side, sharp, jutting cheekbones visible still from a distance. It was familiar and terrifying. Visions of a black cave flickered in Buffy’s head, of candles bleeding down the rock walls, flowing over the edges of a giant pentagram, of a sticky cavern floor drenched in a coagulated layer of gelatinous blood, of humid, rancid air, and bodies, dismembered, discarded. Buffy’s heart thumped like a marching drum. Her hands grew clammy in her worn, leather gloves as she set the binoculars aside and pushed away from the ledge, curling into herself as she struggled to regain her breath. Kennedy muted her microphone with a finger and turned away from her scope.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Nervous?”

Buffy swallowed hard and knelt down behind the brick retaining wall, allowing herself to slump against it for just a moment. Her head was pounding, and she was dizzy, blinking rapidly to chase away spots in her vision. The desire to cough had grown almost unbearable, and she for a lemon throat lozenge, peeling back the wrapper with trembling fingers.

“Buffy?”

She popped the lozenge into her mouth and sucked hard for several moments before she was able to respond. “I’m fine.”

Kennedy regarded her with concern. “You’d tell us if you weren’t up to this, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Buffy sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and met Kennedy’s troubled gaze in the dark. “It’s nothing really. I just have flashbacks sometimes.” Her voice was raspy and quiet. “I see things, and hear things...I see their faces, and I can hear them screaming… It just takes me a minute to recover.”

A strong hand gripped her arm and squeezed. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The blonde shuddered. “I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m not myself lately. I don’t want you guys to get hurt.”

“We’re adults, Buffy. We chose to come on this mission with you.”

“But-”

“And we know the risks, but if we don’t do this, Faith will die.”

Mikhail’s voice crackled down the line. “We have ties to the slayer they call Buffy. We will tell you what we know for a price.”  

The dreamcatcher answered slowly, voice deep and cold. “What makes you think that I want any information you have to offer?”

“It is good information.”

Willow chimed in. “We’re ready.”

Buffy’s heart was in her throat. Her hands were shaking. She wanted to vomit, to crawl away and curl into a ball, but Kennedy was staring her down, waiting patiently for an answer.

The dreamcatcher snarled at Mikhail. “I don’t care. Your arrogance is outrageous. Don’t you know who I am?”

Giles cut in. “The deal is going south. Kennedy, do you have the shot?”

She uncovered her mic, but her eyes never left Buffy’s. “One sec, G.”

“You are a demon lord.”

“I am not just any common demon lord. I am a hell god! I am the antislayer! The one they call dreamcatcher! And who are you vermin that I should stoop to ‘barter’,” he spat the word like bitter poison, “with you?! Why, when I could simply subdue you and take what I wanted from your weak, unguarded minds?”

“Kennedy!” Giles sounded desperate, rushed. “The deal is falling apart. Do you have the shot?”

“Are you ready?” Kennedy’s eyes burned into Buffy, conveying, with as much force as they could, the gravity of their situation. “I can’t do this without you. Do I have the shot?”

A vision of Faith rose in Buffy’s mind, lying prostrate on the sidewalk, shrieking at invisible demons, dripping wet and disheveled. Faith’s eyes dodging corners, muttering under her breath. Faith chained, in the basement, shackles digging into her wrists. She couldn’t hear the screaming voices anymore. She could only hear Faith’s husky voice echoing in her ears.

I’ll be here when you get back.

Buffy took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Kennedy!” Giles was literally shouting in their headsets. “We’re running out of time!”

“Take the shot!” Buffy gasped. “Hurry!”

Kennedy nodded. Like a whip, she snapped back into position, steadied the rifle, and put her finger to the trigger.

“Target acquired.”

“Take it!”

Buffy ducked down and covered her ears as a clear shot rang out in the dark. Kennedy was grinning fiercely, pumping her fist in the air.

“Bullseye!”

“Target neutralized.”

Buffy heaved a sigh of relief and peaked out over the low wall again. A deadly silence had fallen over the empty lot as the vampire minions struggled to sort out what had happened. There was blood in the snow, and blood splashed across a few of confused faces, but it wasn’t until the dreamcatcher’s body collapsed onto the ground that the realization hit them.

Mikhail, Alexei, and Dimitri were already sprinting off into the alley.

Shouts of rage and confusion split the air. Several cultists had thrown off their robes, revealing padded leather armor, and begun to chase after the three brothers. Others were casting about wildly, clamorous and disorganized, looking for the source of the attack, while their master writhed and gurgled in a puddle of slushy red snow. Buffy straightened up and cracked her neck, collecting her nerves, calming her mind. Cold snowflakes burned her skin as she gazed down on the frantic scene below, and she smiled.

“Man,” Kennedy whistled under her breath, bending down to pack away her rifle, “demons really don’t understand guns.”

“Let’s hope they never figure it out.” Buffy tossed a pair of curved, silver-plated knives at the other slayer. “C’mon, let’s go!”

Kennedy slung her bag over a shoulder, and together they vaulted over the edge of the roof and landed together on the fire escape, boots pounding like hammers against the metal stairs as they descended. When they reached the second floor Kennedy swung over the railing and jumped off, landing in a crouch 15 feet away. Buffy launched off behind her with strong thighs and pulled a couple smoke bombs from her jacket pocket, notching them between her knuckles. Kennedy crouched into an aggressive fighting stance as Buffy leapt from the platform, arm whipping forward like a major league pitcher. Two small orbs sang over the younger slayer’s head and glanced off the boots of a hapless vampire, exploding into a cloud of smoke upon impact.

Buffy hit the ground running, drawing a gleaming, red and silver katana from the sheath on her back. "Will! We're on the ground!”

“I heard. I’m guessing the smoke bombs worked?”

“Like a charm!”

“The spell should keep them disoriented for a few minutes, but be careful!”

“Roger!”

Buffy leveled her sword and burst into the circle of angry vampires, whipping the blade down for a vicious horizontal strike on the first body she came upon. There was no feeling as satisfying. Like cutting butter. Evil, demonic butter. She cleaved a head from its shoulders and snarled triumphantly as it turned to ash on the second bounce.

“One down!”

Kennedy executed a perfect backflip, kicking a demon over the head with both feet. He went down face first in the snow, and let out a strangled cry as she buried a knife in his back. Dust billowed up into the air.

“Two down!”

Buffy answered with a boot in the chest of an encroaching demon and hard vertical strike, twirling the sword in the snowy air above her head before bringing down like a hammer.

“Three down!”

Delighted laughter rang out in the night as Kennedy snapped a neck.

“Four down!”

“Not sure how much longer the spell will last.”

Buffy smashed the hilt of her sword into the jaw of a lunging vampire, grinning as the sounds of breaking teeth and cracking bone mingled with anguished shrieks. She finished the job with a boot to the neck and a blade to the heart.

“Five down!”

It was almost going too well, Buffy thought. She whirled and ducked, darting through the smoke, soles sliding over rocks, blood and snow. Confused vampires hemmed in from either side, arms outstretched, and she happily separated at least one arm from its shoulder. She felt better than she had in weeks. Dismembering, decapitating, disemboweling, it all came so naturally to her. But as the minutes ticked by Willow’s spell began to wear off, and the demons were getting smarter, angrier, stronger. Buffy suffered a blow to the back of the head and ended up with a mouth full of icy dirt, rolling to avoid certain decapitation with a machete. She pierced her assailant through the abdomen and received a face full of cold blood as her reward. Kennedy, meanwhile, had taken a few rocks, and a vicious punch to the eye that was sure to leave a shiner A vampire popped in from her left and smashed her in the ribs with a plank of wood. Kennedy recoiled, gritting her teeth. Charging forward, she launched herself into a two-legged kick, bringing him down hard in the dirt with a knee on his chest. She growled and buried her knife in his throat up to the hilt.

Advantage slayers.

Buffy was wheezing when the smoke finally cleared, nursing her elbow against her side, blonde hair and light skin streaked with crimson. Kennedy was wired from the fight, ready to take on another wave, but the elder slayer was tired. The pneumonia was exacting a heavy toll on her body. Buffy lowered her blade onto the dreamcatcher’s throat, a cautionary move, as he had yet to show any signs of resistance, unconscious in a puddle of his own fluids. Kennedy gagged a little as she approached. The bullet had entered through his temple and exited through his mandible, cracking his skull and blasting away a large, gooey chunk of steaming brain matter.

“Gross.”

Buffy, who looked like some kind of wild animal, smeared with blood and dirt, bared a grin that would raise hackles. “Totally.”

Giles’ disembodied voice echoed in their ears. “All clear.”

Buffy glanced toward a rooftop across the street. “What happened to the Russian guys?”

“You won’t be hearing from them again. Their debts have been repaid.”

“Okaaaay…”

Kennedy snorted and muted her microphone. “When did he get all mysterious and creepy on us?”

The blonde shook her head. “I think the bigger question is what did he do with that stick up his butt?”

“Seriously.” Kennedy laughed, and gave her a curious look.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she brushed some loose hair out of her eyes, “it just sounds like something Faith would say.”

A curious shiver ran down Buffy’s spine.

Giles spoke up again. “I’ve just heard from Dawn. Faith’s condition has worsened, unfortunately. I’ll go retrieve the car. Just give me the signal when you are ready to go.”

Both slayers paled and fell silent.

Willow and Noa emerged behind them moments later, glancing around warily at the scattered piles of ash. If Noa was disgusted by the organic matter dripping off Buffy’s clothes, Willow appeared totally unfazed. She crouched down in the snow and removed two mason jars from her knapsack.

“Let’s get this over with.” She thrust a jar at her girlfriend. “One for you, darling.”

Buffy coughed a little, struggling to keep her katana steady against the dreamcatcher’s neck. “I can’t believe it only took one bullet to bring him down.”

“That’s because he’s not a real demon,” Willow replied calmly, moving cautiously toward the body. “He’s just a human with a demonic essence bonded to him. It’s an unnatural union. It may have extended his life and altered his features, but he’s ostensibly mortal.” She bent down, pressing two fingers against the sticky, red skin above his pulse point. “I’ve cast a spell to prevent the demon’s essence from vacating Christopher’s body. It’s the only thing keeping him alive right now.”

Kennedy whistled to herself. “Man, my girlfriend is smart.”

“Thanks, babe.” Willow’s devilish smile faded as she turned back to the others. “We’ve gotta hurry. This will be easier if his heart is still pumping.”

The snow came down harder as they propped the body against the side of the warehouse, slit both wrists, and drained as much blood as they could into the empty mason jars. It didn’t take long, but it was a grisly task. Even Buffy, who had been desensitized to violence and gore at a young age, struggled to keep her gag reflex under control. Only Willow seemed unperturbed. She waited until they had caped their jars before quietly removing a block of amethyst from her bad. She called to Noa, who had her back turned to the slayers, still a bit green in the face, and together they recited a slow, dirge-like incantation. The block seemed to shimmer in the air, humming, glowing faintly, and Buffy's eyes were drawn to it, as though it possessed a gravitational pull of its own, something sinister coaxing her in.

"Try not to look at it." Willow's voice startled her out of a trance. "It's cursed."

The slayer shook herself. "Thanks"

While they finished the ritual, Buffy's thoughts slowed as her heart rate steadied. Weariness draped itself around her shoulders like a heavy cloak, and as she sealed the warm jar, fingers fumbling with the duct tape she was applying around the lid, her mind drifted away.

A cool, gloved hand pressed against her cheek.

“It’s okay, Buffy.”

“Huh?” She glanced up and winced when she saw the concern in Willow’s earthy, green eyes.

“You’re crying.”

“I…” Buffy reached for her face, forgetting momentarily that she was wearing gloves as well. “Oh.” She blinked in surprise.

Willow pried the jar from her hand and stowed it away. “You’re exhausted. Let us do the rest.”

“No, I want to help.”

“We’ll need your strength once we get back to the house.”

Kennedy scooped up the limp, mangled body and carried it to a dumpster several feet away. “You wanna help? Give me a hand, Buff.”

Buffy didn’t have the wherewithal to dry her tears as she staggered to her feet. The wild feelings were coming, a tsunami rolling into shore. She absolutely had to keep busy until the job was done. Nothing good would come of her falling apart now. She turned with purpose toward the dumpster, hoisting the lid so that Kennedy could toss the body in amongst the trash. Deciding to stow her concern away for later, Willow lifted the amethyst block from its resting place on the pavement and stroked the edges lightly with her fingertips, whispering soft, soothing words as a small light seemed to spark in the center of the stone. Noa joined in moments later, extending one hand over the body, placing the other firmly on the stone. Presently, the dreamcatcher’s body began to glow, and a pale, rosy aura traveled up Noa’s arm until it had completely engulfed her, and then began to drain into the stone.

“Ah,” the Spaniard hissed through her teeth, “joder que duele!”

“Casi terminado,” Willow muttered, licking her lips. “Un minuto más. And....done.”

Noa released the stone, slumped against the edge of the dumpster, and wiped her brow. “Que cabrón.”

Willow wrapped the stone in a heavy sheet and stowed it away. “That’s one hell god who won’t be bothering anyone for a while.”

Kennedy brushed a light accumulation of snow off her duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder. She moved to stand next to Willow, reaching out instinctively to take her girlfriend’s hand.

“What are you gonna do with that thing?”

“Not sure yet.” Willow heaved a weary sigh. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Kennedy hooked a thumb at the dumpster. “What about the dead guy? Do we just leave him here?”

“Kind of.” The red witch pulled a white bottle from her bag. “I brought lighter fluid.”

“You think of everything,” Kennedy kissed Willow on the nose.

“Giles is waiting for us around the front of the building,” Noa informed them, closing her phone with a snap. “We have an escape route.”

“Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Buffy’s eyes strayed toward the drained, motionless body. “Will, do you mind if I do the honors?”

Willow solemnly offered up the bottle of lighter fluid, along with a book of matches. Snowflakes swirled around her cherry red hair, and her expression was earnest, as if she were literally willing Buffy to find closure in this, to burn away the lingering traces of evil in his corpse.

“Thanks, Will.”

The girls smiled wearily at each other for a moment.

“You ready, Buff?”

“Born ready.”

Willow nodded at the dumpster. “Light ‘em up.”

 

 


	8. Awake

The skyscrapers downtown were shrouded in a patchy blanket of thick mist, blunt spires punching up into the dreary April rain clouds. She didn't mind the weather today, though. It matched her mood. 13 years old, skinny as a rail, with a padded bra and black eyeliner, Faith leaned up against the side of a Dunkin' Donuts in Charlestown admiring her brand new high tops. Cold rain fell steadily, dripping off the metal awning onto the porch, drenching the slushy city streets. She bit off a chunk of her maple bar and examined her nails, clipped short, polish chipping already. If she'd had any money she would've bought the expensive stuff, the stuff she'd gotten caught lifting from the grocery store twice already. The manager called the cops when he saw her coming now, greasy, balding, old pervert. Whatever. Faith had other means of getting what she wanted. If her mother had taught her anything it was that boyfriends were very good for certain things, and it wasn't difficult to negotiate an exchange of services if you dropped the right buzzwords.

She had reached the end of her donut. Faith shoved the rest in her mouth and crumpled the sticky wax paper into a ball, dropping it carelessly on the sidewalk at her feet. She rubbed her hands clean on her jeans and shoved them into her coat pockets. The wind was a little less arctic now with something in her stomach. Brendon was good about feeding her. She actually liked Brendon, even if he wasn't the brightest bulb in the bunch. He had a job, and he bought her things, like cigarettes or soda, or just a burger sometimes when there was nothing at home to eat. He always gave her free donuts when she dropped by to see him at work, and he didn't ask questions. That was important. Boys that asked too many questions were trouble. Faith didn't like to share, didn't see why she should. Her business was her own, plain and simple, and it had nothing to do with Brendon or anybody else. Fuck 'em.

She scuffed her shoes on the pavement, and peeked through the window over her shoulder. Brendon caught her gaze behind the display case, rolling his eyes at the woman he was helping. She looked like a Jersey transplant in a gaudy white marshmallow coat with fake fur trim, ponytail slicked back tight, bad highlights, big hoop earrings, French-manicured claws, and an expensive Coach purse. She was dressed up trash. Faith knew the type. Suck the right dick, poke the right condom, and they were set for 18 years. One little bundle of joy wrapped in a paycheck. She smirked when the lady caught Brendon staring, snapping her fingers at him like hired help. Yeah, she was a class act. A kid wandered into a view, bundled up in a blue coat and and Bruins hat, clutching a chocolate donut like it was made of gold. He couldn’t have been more than eight, just chewed on his pastry and stared at the floor while his mother reamed Brendon out at the register. Faith turned away. Her mouth had grown acidic and sour, and she popped a stick of gum in her mouth, preparing for the inevitable kiss of greeting, the sugary “hey, babe”, the salacious smile.

Suddenly the door swung open and the lady came storming out, ponytail whipping back and forth, heels clicking and clacking against the walk. She had her kid by the arm, half leading, half dragging him into the parking lot, and she was yelling about something. Faith cringed, shoulders hunching forward, slumping into herself. Fucking Jersey trash with their fucking attitudes thinking anyone gives a shit what they’re on about. She rolled her eyes and was just beginning to turn away when the boy muttering something, and his mother reared back, red lips curled, baring bleached, white teeth.

“What did I just tell you?” the woman barked, raising her arm.

Neither Faith nor the boy had time to react. She brought her hand down and slapped the kid hard across the face. Faith nearly gasped aloud. She felt it in her chest, the sudden impact behind her ribs, the exhalation, and resulting shock wave of adrenalin flowing into into her limbs. A resounding ‘smack’ echoed in the parking lot. The boy stumbled and nearly lost his footing, wet eyes running and wicked red mark smarting on his cheek. He glanced furtively in Faith’s direction, and jerked away when their shocked eyes met. Her jaw twitched.

His mother, meanwhile, was either unaware or unaffected by Faith’s presence as she snatched her son by the arm and shook him. “If you ask me again, you’ll really be sorry you opened your ugly little mouth.”

Blood pounded in Faith's ears, and she barely had time to think as she stepped away from the wall. “Hey, lady.”

The woman halted mid rant and glanced up to see who had interrupted her. “What?”

Faith pointed at the boy, and balled her fists. “That's child abuse, ya know.”

“Who the fuck are you?” She gave Faith a lazy once over, a single, sharp eyebrow arched. “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”

"You should stop beating up little kids," Faith retorted, drawing herself up to her full height, squaring her shoulders. "It's pathetic."

The woman was indignant, but not cowed. She went on the offensive immediately, aiming a sharp, accusatory finger squarely at Faith's chest. Her heavily powdered cheeks were flushed red, voice rising to a shrill pitch as she fired back.

"Don't you tell me how to raise my son, you skinny little bitch."  

"How 'bout you don't hit your kids, ya fat slut."

The woman's nostrils flared and for a moment she looked like an angry horse ready to trample Faith into the ground. She stepped forward, arm twitching, and then seemed to think better of it. Her son, meanwhile, had tucked himself behind her legs, trying to make himself as small as possible. The kid looked like he wanted to dissolve into the pavement.

“Whatever,” the lady huffed, turning away, “I don’t have time to argue with grade schoolers. Marco!” She barked at the poor kid, pushing him toward the parking lot. “Let’s go!”

Faith growled. This bitch was unbelievable. She was seeing red, and before she could stop herself she was acting on it. She launched off her toes, took a couple quick steps, and walloped the lady across the face with the palm of her hand. That was definitely going to bruise. The woman stumbled and screeched, releasing the kid from her claws as she tottered around on her heels. She clutched at her nose and screamed curses through her fingers. It was perfect, absolutely picture perfect. Faith laughed and dodged a couple of desperate swipes.

“Hurts, yeah? I bet it freaking does! That’s what it feels like to get smacked around by dumb bitches like you!” Faith turned to the boy in the blue coat who was standing stock still in an empty parking space, jaw slack, eyes the size of quarters. “Don’t let her, or anybody else treat ya like that, got it? Ya gotta look out for yourself.”

“Faith! What the hell?” Brendon burst through the doors of the Dunkin’ Donuts with his supervisor on his heels.

He whipped off his uniform hat revealing a shock of dyed, jet black hair. Long bangs flopped across his brow, framing baby blue eyes and the metal ring in his nose. He wasn’t shocked, knowing her attitude and her rap sheet fairly well by now. He only seemed annoyed as he intercepted her, steering her back toward the dumpsters. His hapless supervisor, a chubby man in his late twenties was taking the full brunt of the Barbie slut’s rage behind them, who still screamed obscenities at Faith over his shoulder with every other breath.

“The hell is this about?” Brendon growled, swiping a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“She was smackin’ her kid around.” Faith hooked her fingers in his studded belt and tugged his closer. “Yellin’ at ‘im and stuff.”  

The belt trick usually worked. Perhaps she hadn’t sold it with as much conviction today. Her boyfriend grumbled and pulled her toward his car, a faded blue Mustang with a custom spoiler that his brother’s friend had added for cheap.

“Ya can’t just hit someone like that for no reason.”

“It wasn’t no reason!” Faith retorted, shrugging off his hand. “She was hitting her kid! S’not like I’m just gonna stand around and let her keep doin’ it!”

“Yeah, well ya should’ve.”

“Who’s side are you on here?”

“Yours! I just…” Brendon wrestled his keys from his sweatshirt pocket and unlocked the driver side door. “You need to learn to mind your own business. You’ll get in trouble.”

“I’m already in trouble.”

“Faith.”

“I don’t need this crap from you. I was jus’ trying to do something right for once, and now you’re tellin’ me I was outta line.”

Brendon rubbed the back of his neck, looking grumpy and conflicted. “I mean, ya did a good thing, but the cops don’t see it that way do they?”

“The cops don’t care about what’s right.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Just...just get in the car before that bitch decides to press charges.”

“Fine.”

“Faith.”

She glanced up from the pavement. “What?”

“Faith?”

She blinked to clear her vision, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. The world appeared suddenly less stable than it had a moment ago. The colors were bland, washed out, growing faint. She tried to back away, but her muscles were sluggish, and the air thickened until it felt like porridge. Suffocating, claustrophobic.  

“Faith, come back.” Brendon’s feature’s were blurry. When his mouth moved the words seemed to travel a very long distance before they reached her ears.

“Faith…”

She reached out to take hold of something, but her fingers closed on air. The sensation of weightlessness returned, followed swiftly by overwhelming nausea, dizziness, a fuzzy ringing in her ears, and then, nothing.

Just darkness.

The darkness stayed for some time.

Presently, she became aware of a new sensation, a slight pressure on her forehead, so feathery and gentle that it felt like the brush of a bird’s wing.  Faith twitched, and the pressure increased, until it was no longer so soft. Now warm and sturdy, a scouring material that was simultaneously calming and invasive. Her eyelids fluttered. The tips of her fingers flexed and curled.

“She’s coming around.”

The feeling was returning to her limbs. Her skin prickled, almost painfully, and her extremities buzzed. She was damp and sticky, lying against something hard, something cold, smooth, and unyielding. Faith’s lips parted and a sickly moan bubbled up from her chest. Fresh air rushed over her tongue and she became aware of the acrid taste in her mouth, bitter and sour, how her throat was raw, and it hurt to swallow. Everything hurt. Everything ached, and as the darkness yielded to a soft yellow light, a whimper escaped her.

Voices swirled around her head, and she picked out a few bits and pieces, gradually able to grasp and comprehend full sentences. They were talking about her. What were they saying? Why so hushed, why so worried?

“She’s got a little more color in her cheeks, hasn’t she?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Grab the water. There, on the counter.”

The rim of a glass was held to her lips, and her head tipped back by some phantom hand, unincorporated, unidentified in her daze. Cold water trickled down her throat, and she coughed and sputtered at first, before returning to drink more.

Crowded together in the tight space around the porcelain tub, Buffy, Willow, and Giles heaved a collective sigh of relief. It was the first sign they’d had in over four hours that the witch’s antivenom was working. Buffy pulled the glass away from Faith’s lips, setting it aside on the tile floor, before returning to adjust the damp washcloth on the slayer’s head.

"I really thought I was gonna lose her." The witch's voice was raspy, brittle. "I may have...dug a little too deep...trying to pull her back."

Willow dropped onto the toilet lid, shoulders hunched, limp and boneless, as though all the power had gone out of her. She had been too harried to bother with the blood on her hands, and now, in her exhaustion, couldn’t be bothered to wash it off. The edges of her fingernails, even her cuticles, were stained an ugly, rusted brown. Her eyes traveled down over her knuckles, as slowly, deliberately, she flipped her palms up to reveal dark veins slithering under the alabaster skin stretched over her wrists. Buffy noticed first, looking just as ragged, if not more so, in muddy black clothes, grimey and blood-smeared like the good old days in Sunnydale, when they were all stretched thin, before the end of times. Her hazel gaze penetrated deep, probed for signs that the red witch had herself under control..

“Your eyes, Will.”

“Buffy…I...” The redhead shuddered all over.

Giles took note of the exchange, the shift of energy in the room. He stepped back, retreating to the doorway to give them space. Buffy climbed to her feet and crossed the tiny bathroom in a single step, taking Willow’s chin in her hand, turning it up to reveal a pinched expression and hooded, black eyes.

"I-I'm sorry. I promised it wouldn't h-happen again."

"It was a promise you could never keep."

Willow sobbed.

"We pushed you to this point. I asked you to do this."

"I s-should b-be able to do this!" Willow choked, bit down hard until her body quaked, absorbing the sobs like small explosions of uncontainable emotion. "I s-s-should..."

Buffy pulled the redhead’s face into her stomach, wrapped her arms defensively around Willow’s shoulders, and turned to Giles. “She needs Kennedy.”

To say that the watcher was alarmed would be an understatement, though he concealed it well. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and frowned at her.

“Does this happen often?”

"No."

"I know that I've been..." he paused, prevaricating a bit between words, "I know I've been gone for a while, what with the Organization's duties pulling me in a million different directions, but I would hate for you to keep something like this from me just to spare me the added anxiety."

Buffy pursed her lips, reluctant to divulge details that would most certainly be taken out of context without due explanation. “She’s been under a lot of stress lately. She’s just exhausted. She needs rest. She needs Kennedy.”

Never mind that she, Buffy, with her pneumonia and a mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder, was the primary source of that stress. That conversation could wait.

"You sure? You'd tell me if-"

"Yes."

"Right then."

The watcher hastened to his errand with a stiff nod, and Buffy held her friend tighter, coaxing her back from the edge. It was surprisingly easy to be the pillar of strength, with Faith passed out in the bathtub, Dawn asleep on the couch with tears drying on her face, and Willow potentially succumbing to a disastrous bout of evil witch fu. It wasn’t that she didn’t hurt. That wasn’t it at all. On the contrary, Buffy’s whole body burned and bled, sore muscles and fresh bruises and a knot of pain rooted deep in her chest that was always throbbing, pounding, choking. She was such an ugly mess, had been for such an uncharacteristically long time, that it felt nice not to be the only one.

Was that sick?

“Babe?” Kennedy’s voice sounded from the hallway, and the young slayer burst into the tiny bathroom like a bull released from its cage. “Babe, talk to me.”

She all but shoved Buffy aside, tugging Willow off the toilet, and lifting her up, bridal style, into her arms. Dark veins bulged under the witch’s skin. Inky black eyes peered back into Kennedy’s warm, brown ones, desperate and gentle, searching for recognition.

“Babe? Willow?” She kissed her girlfriend’s forehead, and her voice was strong and forceful even as she struggled to keep it steady. “I love you.” She punctuated this statement with another kiss. “I love you more than Paris.” She pressed her lips against a clammy temple. “God, I love you more than slaying."

Buffy quirked a brow.

“It’s true, you know.” She blushed furiously, holding onto Willow’s dark gaze as though it were the last lifeline in a flood. “You’re my whole world, Willow Rosenberg. I want to marry you and raise your ginger babies, and I can’t do that if you turn evil again and kill us all, so you have to come back to me, okay?”

Buffy’s mouth fell open.

“Give me a sign, babe,” Kennedy continued earnestly. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

Willow seemed to convulse all over, and it terrified both slayers for a heart-stopping second, but when it ceased all of the black had yielded to green, and a tearful smile bloomed across Willow’s damp, weary, beautiful face.

“Is that a...proposal?”

Kennedy heaved an enormous sigh of relief and returned her girlfriend's watery smile with an exasperated grin of her own. “Jesus, yes. It’s a freaking proposal.”

Willow laughed, and then sobbed, and then she was choking out her answer, repeating it again and again like a holy oath. “Yes, yes, yes...I’ll marry you. Yes!”

They kissed until their lungs demanded respite, and continued to do so until a comically wide-eyed Buffy cleared her throat.

Kennedy detached herself long enough to toss the blonde a giddy smile, then turned back to her fiance. “Shall we discuss this upstairs?”

Willow nodded furiously, and Kennedy nearly bounded from the bathroom with her fiance in her arms, leaving Buffy alone, bewildered, trying to make sense of the scene she had just witnessed.

“Well, that was sudden.”

“Maybe...if you’re...blind.” She whirled on the spot and found Faith, blinking in the bathtub, a lazy smile resting on her lips. “Hey, B.”

“You’re alive,” Buffy breathed.

“Five by five.”

The blonde slayer sank to her knees in front of the tub, and it was the closest she had ever felt to God, to the Powers, to something holy and ethereal and benevolent and so far above the limits of her cognition that she had no choice but to gasp her thanks.

“Oh, thank you, Jesus." She pressed her forehead against cool porcelain, overcome with relief. "Thank you, God, Buddha, Zeus, whoever is up there listening right now, thank you!"

"The hell, B?" A moist, sticky hand gripped hers.

Buffy shuddered. "You almost died, idiot."

"Hm," the brunette grunted. "Wouldn't be...the first time."

"Oh my god!" Buffy pinned Faith with furious, bloodshot eyes. "For once in your stupid life could you just shut up and let me have this?!"

Faith grimaced. "You already...have everything, B."

The fire in Buffy’s eyes flickered and went out. "What?"

"You heard me."

A flash of understanding passed between them, and Buffy blushed to the tips of her ears. "Everything?" She bit her lip. "Like, everything everything? Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about? Because...wow."

Faith coughed, cleared her throat, and glanced off to the side. "Did I stutter?"

Buffy was stunned, completely speechless for almost 30 seconds, eyes frozen, locked on the flush of red creeping up Faith's neck. "How long?" she gasped.

The brunette shrugged, almost casually, but not quite. It looked the way an embarrassed kid might shrug off a question, act tough, avoid the eyes, try to seem disinterested when the interest was so painfully clear that it could not possibly be missed.

"I dunno." She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit, and Buffy waited with bated breath for another morsel of information to fall from those chapped lips. "Since...LA."

"LA?" Well, that was certainly not the answer Buffy had been expecting. "Why LA? What happened in LA?"

Faith shifted in the tub until she was as far away from the blonde as possible, arms folded instinctively across her chest. "You...told me you'd kill me...if I tried to apologize."

“What?”

Buffy blinked. So, that was before the First, in LA after the body swap, before Faith went to prison. That was...years ago. Holy shit.

"That long ago?"

Faith said nothing.

"I don't...why? I threatened to kill you and...?" Buffy couldn't seem to finish a sentence. "I don't get it."

"There's nothing to get, B."

“Like hell there isn’t.”

Faith closed her eyes and sighed. "I was...so jealous, like crazy fucking bitter. I did all this shit trying to get your attention. And it worked." She scoffed at herself, mirthlessly. "I got your undivided attention for a whole minute, and you know what I saw in your eyes?”

Buffy winced.

“Yeah. Hate.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I earned it.” Faith’s head lolled to the side, away from Buffy. “Seems pretty weird, I bet. I spent all this time trying to get back at you. Trying to best you. Trying to take shit from you. In the end it was like I was this little kid, knocking things off the table, trying to get Ma’s attention.”

A pang of indescribable sadness sliced through Buffy’s heart. She didn’t know much about the younger slayer’s childhood, but she knew enough.

“I spent all this time in prison thinking about you, like, trying to figure out why I craved your attention so badly. When I got fed up with that I decided, you know, fuck it. Who gives a shit what she thinks about me? So, then I spent all this time thinking about how I didn’t care what you thought, and just, fuck.” Faith’s chin quivered a bit. “No matter what it was always about you, B. It just clicked one day, why it mattered so much. I was in the yard or something, lifting weights, and I just...like a lightning bolt, I just…”

“Cried?” Buffy offered, and Faith appeared skittish, annoyed, and relieved all at once.

“Yeah,” she agreed finally, grudgingly. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Buffy reached into the tub and grabbed Faith by the collar of her stained, grey sweatshirt. She dragged the girl closer, until she could smell the sweat drying on her skin, and pressed her lips very gently against Faith’s temple. The brunette’s sharp intake of breath sent an electric thrill racing through Buffy’s veins.

“B?”

Buffy drew back a little and very tenderly brushed the loose hair out of Faith’s eyes. “I was furious when you left. It was so easy to hate you. You made it easy.” Her hand strayed south along the edge of Faith’s jaw, thumb coming to rest on the brunette's bottom lip. “I was always hoping that you would get your shit together so I could rely on you more. I thought it would be really nice to maybe lean on someone else for a change, but then just when it was starting seem like you might not freak out again, you took off for Stockholm.”

“I...I couldn’t deal. I had to get out.”

“It makes more sense now.”

“So, why me, though?” Faith’s chest rose and fell a little quicker. “Why not rely on Kennedy or the others?”

Buffy increased the pressure of her thumb on Faith’s bottom lip, dipping in further until she encountered moisture. “Because they weren’t the ones I wanted.”

Recognition, surprise, and relief were all present in Faith’s expression as Buffy closed the gap between them, bringing their mouths together, groaning as their lips finally connected. Faith gasped, and trembled, and when the shock subsided, her own fingers crept up and curled into Buffy's jacket. She pulled until Buffy was nearly falling into the tub, and she felt at least a little bit anchored, and a little less like she was hallucinating. Wild feelings bubbled up from the deep places inside her, raw, and bare. She had given herself away. Her cards were on the table, scattered, and Buffy held the aces. She was helpless, she was flying, she was caving in on herself like a dying star, a cosmic explosion of sound and fury. Years of agony began to thaw, grief released from an icy tomb, and Faith kissed Buffy back with everything she had, welding their mouths together, biting down, choking on fragments of words meant to express emotions that had no names.

Faith was wrecked.

She knew it.

“Holy shit, Buffy.” She pushed the blonde away just as suddenly as she had pulled her in, gasping for breath. “Fuck.”

Buffy pressed her fingertips to her lips, reverently. Her gaze was wide, and shocked, but Faith found no ambivalence there.

“Are you real?” the brunette asked, pleaded.

“Yes,” Buffy breathed.

“I don’t think I couldn’t handle it if you weren’t.”

“I think…” Buffy paused just briefly to organize her thoughts. “I think I should’ve done that sooner.”

“Yeah,” Faith murmured, awestruck, “way sooner.”

“Should we maybe…” Buffy trailed off and glanced over her shoulder at the door, still hanging ajar. “I was gonna say ‘get out of these clothes’, but,” she looked down at the front her black jacket, now a mottled, crusty brown, “I’m sort of disgusting.”

“I haven’t showered in days,” Faith admitted, wrinkling her nose. “Kinda hard to shower when you’re chained up and talkin’ to yourself.”

Buffy snorted. “I guess we’re both gross, huh?”

“Jacob Maclin did tell me I had cooties in the second grade.” Faith grinned, and Buffy rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Yes, he was,” the blonde countered, sighing softly. “I don’t think it matters how often you shower, Faith. You’re always beautiful.”

Faith’s jaw went slack. “What?”

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” Buffy cocked her head to the side and laughed. “You know, for the longest time I couldn’t decide whether I was envious or jealous.”  

She bit her lip, and Faith just watched, entranced, now that she was free to stare without rebuke. Buffy rose gracefully to her feet and shut the bathroom door, deliberately flipping the lock.

“They’re gonna ask questions,” Faith said quietly, growing nervous.

The other slayer knelt down over the tub and slid her arms under Faith’s torso. “Hold still.”

“I can stand, B.”

“I said ‘hold still’, F.”

With only a bit of extra grumbling, Faith allowed Buffy to lift her up out of the tub and set her gently on the edge of the bathroom counter.

The blonde brandished a grubby finger and poked her square in the chest. “Stay.”

And Faith stayed. She was more than happy to stay, and it scared her to think about that, how much she was willing to give with no promise of return. It was a gamble, the greatest gamble she had ever taken, but If it meant she got to kiss those lips, Faith wanted Buffy to boss her around for the rest of her life.

“We should probably talk,” Buffy said, as she turned the hot water knob. “That would be like, the smart thing to do.”

“Let’s not,” Faith replied, voice low and husky, gripping the edge of the marble countertop for support.

Buffy ran her fingers under the faucet, and adjusted the knob. “We might regret it.”

Faith’s heart hammered in her chest. She watched Buffy straighten up and draw out the shower curtain until it obscured the porcelain tub, and when she licked her lips she found them dry. The blonde reached down for the little, metal switch, and the familiar stutter of the showerhead sputtering to life filled the room.

“We’re not good at talking, B. We’ll just fuck shit up again.”

“I know, but…”

Buffy stared down at her hands for a moment, eyes sweeping across one, and then the other, and she studied them, the crescent rings of dirt and dried blood beneath her fingernails, the calices on her palms from the friction of a thousand rough stakes. Then her green eyes shimmered, shifted. She raised her head. Her gaze traveled up the length of Faith's body, staked a claim, and branded what was now hers, what had always been hers to claim, no matter how vehemently Faith had denied it. Buffy reached down and hooked her fingers in the hem of her grubby black pullover, and before Faith had realized what was happening, Buffy was stripping it off. She picked up momentum. The next layer, a crew neck sweatshirt, came off faster, and then the henley, and then the tight under armour shirt clinging to her skin, until she stood before Faith in just a training bra and pants.

“Jesus…” Faith muttered, and allowed her eyes to wander.

Buffy was covered in scars and bruises, mottled purple, faded yellow, and yet was still so stunning, her beauty untouched, unblemished by any of this evil. She was thinner than Faith remembered from all that time ago, but it was impossible to say whether her imagination had embellished a few choice details, or whether the years had simply been unkind. Her ribs protruded a little bit more. Her hips seemed a bit sharper. She had gained more muscle, and this was most obvious in her abdomen and her arms, which rippled as she moved. Faith licked her lips, and Buffy grew momentarily bashful. She balled her hands into fists and squirmed.

“I’ve been sick for a while,” she said, by way of explanation.

Faith shook her head. “You’re gorgeous.”

Buffy blushed, and the steam billowed around her body, and she looked like a goddess, a warrior goddess, sliding out of her pants, and leggings, and a pair of very flattering, powder-pink briefs. Faith’s fingers throbbed so hard it hurt, but she waited patiently, and she kept her hands to herself.

When Buffy had finished with herself, stark naked and barefoot on the damp tiles, tangled blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, Faith could hardly breathe. Green eyes turned on her and fixed her there with such steel that it was impossible to hide the shivers. So exposed. So powerful. Buffy was totally in control of herself as she reached out and seized the front of Faith’s sweatshirt.

“Let’s get you out of these,” she said.

“You grew your hair out,” Faith replied.

A non-sequitur. Too difficult to string thoughts together with her eyes on Buffy’s chest, creeping south. Steady now. Don’t lose it. Ah, too late. As steam filled the bathroom, something else filled the cavity in Faith’s chest. Buffy was up against her, thin leggings and a pullover the only things that separated them. The blonde slayer guided her off the counter and back onto her own two feet. Little fingers tugged and pulled and lifted, and off came the sweatshirt, over her head and on the cold floor. Next, the shirt, soaked through with sweat. Buffy hooked her thumbs under the elastic band on Faith’s training bra, rolled it up and peeled it off. The urge to cover herself was sudden and strong, but Buffy was on the move again. She dropped to her knees, nose inches from Faith’s navel, and looked up at her through long lashes. Faith’s stomach dropped, all fears forgotten. Her limbs throbbed and ached. Her nerve endings burned. It was as pleasurable as it was painful. It left her gasping.

Buffy waited for a sign, and, at length, Faith gave it. She nodded once, a curt, stiff jerk of the head, and then her leggings were gone, rolled down to her ankles, socks and all. Buffy made fast work of Faith’s black thong, and the brunette stepped out of the whole mess, kicking them aside. Then Buffy grabbed her hips and pulled her closer. She pushed her nose up against Faith’s abdomen and inhaled.

“You smell gross.” Buffy smiled, lips brushing bare skin.

Faith was so flustered she could hardly think. “Sorry.”

Buffy’s smile grew. “No, I’m a creep. I like it.”

She climbed to her feet, hugged Faith around the middle, and walked them both toward the shower. And Faith just moaned, with their bodies pressed together, and sticky skin sliding, then catching, like tension and release. She didn’t even realize that Buffy’s knees were shaking when the hot water hit their bodies, cascaded over their shoulders, soaked their hair. She didn’t even realize she was gasping when Buffy raked her nails down her back. Too much, too fast. Overstimulation, like a finger in an electrical socket. They shivered and shuddered together until their skin was flushed red from the heat, until someone was brave enough to seek out the other’s lips. There was no other feeling like it, two lubricated bodies sliding past each other. Intoxicating, dizzying, building to a powerful and terrifying apex

But it didn’t progress.

Just as quickly as the tension mounted, it faded, and all that was left was exhaustion, frayed nerves, and mutual relief. Buffy clung to Faith, arms looped around her waist, hands hooked up over her shoulders, nose tickling her collar. So small, still, even after all these years. The one girl in all the world, long since in good company, seemed always to move with an air of solitude around her. The loneliness was palpable. Faith could taste it on her tongue, bitter, sour, acrid. A lump rose in her throat, like a stone, all her regrets rolled up and fired into an iron lump that she could never quite swallow. Not anymore. Not for years.

Old memories rose to the surface as Buffy cried on her shoulder, as Faith held her fast. The first spring in Stockholm, the boys, the men, with light eyes and fair hair and enigmatic grins. One after the other, through France, through Spain, through the desperately cold Russian winter, in the sweltering Colombian heat. During that four year absence, each destination was more exotic than the last. Images flickered behind her eyes, of herself, crouched up high on a wet tree bough in the Laotian jungle, flicking bugs off her arm, cursing mosquitos as she spied on some demon or another, thinking about not thinking about Buffy. Never thinking about Buffy. Of a rust-stained bathtub in Taipei, and the apartment with the failing air conditioning unit. The most miserable summer she had ever spent with herself, alone in a city of millions, alone in a room of friends and colleagues, alone in a strip club with a bottle of pills and a shot of gin and the hottest girl the owner could throw at her. Still not thinking about Cleveland. Still not thinking about blonde hair, furious green eyes, pinched, angry lips. No, just touching. Just hands, just lips, just traitorous, undulating hips, and the city lights fading into a haze. She couldn’t count anymore. How many shots and pills to get a slayer fucked up? How many nights unaccounted for, lost in the blur? Mornings that came too soon, too violently. Months without seeing the sun. Months trying to kick a habit.

She had stayed in Asia for two years, and what of it? Shredding her enemies, churning through pretty girls and handsome boys, drugs and booze, and assignments too dangerous for the newbies to take. What of it? It was time wasted. Years wasted, and all the loneliness of it was cast in so stark a light as she stood there, naked, pressed against the woman she loved.

Faith clutched Buffy tighter to her and buckled under the spray of hot water, under the weight of a sob that been building since the moment she had first stepped off the bus in Sunnydale, California.

“I’m s-sorry…”

Buffy raised her head. Her eyes were red and swollen, but tender. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“It wasn’t, but it is now.”

Faith’s knees gave way, and she slid down Buffy’s front, fingers trailing along her abdomen and her thighs until they landed on bruised shins. She anchored herself there, forehead pressed against Buffy’s knees, hands gripping Buffy’s ankles, and sobbed.

“Faith.” Buffy slid down to join her. “Faith, look at me.”

“I c-can’t.”

“Faith-”

“I f-fucking c-c-can’t, B.”

“Just look at me, damnit!”

“What, I-?” Faith forced herself to meet Buffy’s gaze, though she continued to shake, and her eyes still watered. “B…”

Buffy reached out and took Faith’s head firmly in her hands. “I love you.”

The brunette seemed to shudder all over. Her eyelids fluttered, and she rolled her shoulders.

“...Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just…” Faith leaned forward and captured Buffy’s lips in a swift kiss. “I’m just really, really tired.” She wiped her eyes and offered a weak smile. “But...I love you, too.”

Buffy giggled.

“What’s so funny.”

“I dunno.” She brushed her fingers along the top of Faith’s thigh. “Just like...I guess we’re gay now, huh?”

“Whaddaya mean ‘now’?” Faith scoffed. When Buffy began to protest she just rolled her eyes and sniffled some more. “You act like nobody knows about Satsu.”

“Sat...shit.”

“Yeah, everybody knows about Satsu.”

“When you say ‘everybody’...”

Faith gave her a look.

“Shit.” Buffy covered her face, and Faith laughed.

A curt knock on the bathroom door startled them both and sent them flying apart, even behind the protective barrier of an opaque, plastic curtain. Faith knocked over a shampoo bottle with her elbow as a male voice filtered through the old wood.

“I don’t know what you two are doing in there, and I don’t much care at this point, but we haven’t got unlimited hot water, and some of us would like to shower after last night’s adventure!”

Buffy blushed a deep crimson, and whispered furtively, “Oh god, Giles. He gets really cranky when we use up the hot water.” She craned her neck toward the door and shouted a quick, “Kay!” before clambering up and pulling Faith to her feet.

Faith groaned. “Did we just get caught in the act?”

“Oh, totally.” Buffy seemed altogether too cheerful as she reached for the soap. “Speaking of which, I’m guessing everyone on the planet will hear about this, too?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re related to Dawn.”

“Right. How silly of me to forget.”

“You’d like, better get used to being ‘Buffy the lesbian vampire slayer’.”

Buffy snorted. “I can see it in lights.” She uncapped a blue bottle, lathered up her hands, and began to rub lavender body wash into the brunette’s arms and shoulders. “I can’t wait to have that conversation with everyone in the slayer organization, including my friends and the man who is basically my only remaining parental figure.”

“We’ll call it, ‘a journey of vampire slaying and sexual self-discovery’.”

Buffy groaned. “Let’s just get cleaned up and go to bed. I’m exhausted. We can make rainbow friendship bracelets in the morning.”

“It is morning, isn’t it?”

Buffy reached for more soap and started on Faith’s chest area, which was more or less completely distracting. “Shut up and enjoy the spa treatment.”

Even if she could find the will to speak, Faith had no comeback for that.

 


	9. Absolution

Faith bolted upright in the dark, fingers scrabbling against the sheets for the knife she kept under her pillow. Mere seconds out of a dead, dreamless sleep, her mind was already gathering data, mapping out her surroundings. Quiet sounds from a sub level. Cars on the street. A residential zone, evidenced by the scraping of cutlery against porcelain, the monotone buzz of a TV, dogs barking outside the building. Her instincts had roused her. Why? There was something else in the room, someone else. Vamp? No, breathing. Demon? No, the scent was human. Faith's groping fingers closed on nothing but bare fabric. She knocked her pillow aside, twisting round as her slayer vision adjusted to the dark. No knife. Reaching for the pair of silver-plated brass knuckles she generally wore on a chain round her neck, Faith found that her chest, too, was bare. Wait...bare? Her hands traveled up and down her front, finding liberated breasts, erect nipples, and goosebumps. Exploration further south informed her that she was at least wearing underwear, and what felt like cotton shorts, though nothing she recognized from her own, Spartan wardrobe. Her fingers had just wound their way into her hair, which was tangled, and a bit damp in spots, when the chill hit her skin. She shivered violently all over. It was fucking cold.

What the hell was going on? Wasn’t she in the tropics? Faith was confused, and she really loathed being confused, being disoriented. Disoriented slayers became vampire food. She had seen it firsthand enough to know that staying alert was key. Situational awareness was the most valuable weapon a vampire slayer could ever possess. Ancient magical scythes be damned.

There was sudden movement in the bed to her right. Something soft and warm brushed her leg, and Faith nearly levitated, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle a raspy squeak.

"Mmm...Faith?"

A quiet murmur rang out in the gloom like an alarm, an oddly soothing alarm. The covers were thrown aside and a mop of blonde hair emerged, and suddenly Faith knew exactly where she was. Buffy blinked, the cutest, sleepiest blinking Faith had ever seen, and rubbed her eyes. A long sleep shirt hung from her shoulders and trailed down her front, pooling around creamy, bare thighs. Faith's heart was still pounding. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

"You okay?" Even Buffy's sleepy, concerned expression was cute.

Faith shook her head. "Yeah, B. Just...disoriented."

Buffy scooted closer. "You know where you are?" She reached out and laid her hand against the brunette’s cheek.

"Your bedroom," Faith breathed, and her voice was husky, and suddenly the adrenaline, her pounding heart, were taking on a new purpose.

The blonde just offered a sleepy smile. "Yeah."

"Why am I naked?"

"Hm? Oh," Buffy yawned, "'cause you fell asleep before you finished getting dressed." She dropped her hand, and it trailed down along Faith's side, coming to rest with a flourish of fingers on her hip. "I had to tuck you in."

Faith blushed furiously. She mussed her hair, flustered, roughly brushing errant locks out her eyes. The last time either of them had been this close? Well, if you didn’t count the very steamy, very...emotional shower, and the oddly romantic cuddling on the basement cot, chains notwithstanding, or even the past week, really. The time before that? At least one of them had been holding a knife. At least one of them had been throwing a punch or hurling an insult. And that was impossible to erase, their long, sordid history of jealous rivalry, violent confrontation, and vitriol. There wasn’t enough room between them in the bed for all of that now, but it was present in the room. All of it. A big, passive aggressive elephant with a powder keg strapped to its back and a fuse long enough to bind them both together in their anger and their jealously. How to reconcile that with...the shower? Or maybe more explicitly, the touching in the shower, and the kiss, the kisses? Faith shivered, and forced herself to ask the burning question on her lips.

"B..."

"Hm, F...?" Buffy's gaze wavered. Between the brunette's eyes and mouth, Buffy seemed to favor her mouth.

“Um,” Faith swallowed. “Would it be okay if I-”

“-Yes.”

“-held you?” She blinked. “Oh! Um...good, ‘cause, well, I just wasn’t sure if like....you know.”

Buffy frowned, a cute, groggy, exasperated frown. “You’re not making any sense.”

The brunette scratched the back of her neck. “I know.”

“Just hold me, kay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

They settled back down under the covers, and Buffy slid through the sheets until her hands encountered Faith’s skin, soothing the goosebumps with warm, battle-calloused hands. She tucked her head under the brunette’s chin and curled into her side, arm draped over her torso, fingers fluttering curiously against her sternum. Faith took a deep, shuddering breath and let her racing heart slow to a brisk jog. Her hand settled on Buffy’s back, and after a while she could hear other sounds again, floorboards creaking in the other room, a pot boiling on the stove, branches creaking in the wind. She sighed with relief, and allowed her muscles to settle. The moment stretched on until time became irrelevant. Headlights shown in from the street and penetrated the dark. Pale yellow stripes stretched along the wall through the wooden blinds on the bedroom window, bending and fading. It lasted just a few seconds, but long enough to illuminate the picture frames on the chest of drawers against the far wall, and for a moment Joyce Summer’s smiling face peered back at her. Her chest grew tight again.

“Your heart is beating really fast,” Buffy whispered, pressing a languid kiss against her neck.  

Faith shivered, and it was her only response. The sensation it created was indescribable, except to say that she felt both comforted and exposed, and that she was hard pressed to think of another time when she had been so intimate with another person. There was Robin, whose handsome face had risen to the surface of her mind in recent days, but even he had never come so close. Because it was one thing to be held in someone’s arms, and another entirely to feel like a book, opened and read to the last page. And Buffy did more than read, she studied. It was evident in the measured actions that she took, the ones that were already becoming instinctual, habitual. The way her fingers always seemed to know exactly where to touch, whether with a caress or a fist. She anticipated Faith’s moods before Faith herself could recognize them, using them to antagonize her or to calm her. There was no barrier thick enough, no distance great enough to escape that penetrating gaze. Faith saw green eyes in her sleep, and after four years running to the highest and lowest places on Earth, hiding, and learning how to hide better, she felt more vulnerable than ever.

Faith buried her nose in golden hair that smelled of shampoo, vanilla, and pheromones that had curious effects on her body. It made her weak. It was intoxicating. It punched her in the chest. She could almost feel her pupils dilating, and her blood heating up.

“You smell good,” she whispered.

When had her voice become so husky?

She felt Buffy shiver. “So, do you.”

Faith’s fingers began to wander. They scaled Buffy’s spine and swept across her skin in broad brush strokes, trailing fire, drawing the most curious sounds from the slayer’s lips. They descended south, tracing the curvature between her last rib and her jutting hip bone, fluttering for a moment above her waist, then closing like talons around her thigh. The little blonde twitched and groaned, and it set off a violent chain reaction in Faith, who was immediately consumed by the sparks racing outward into her limbs. A thousand tiny pinpricks of electricity demanding urgent action.

She felt as if she had been struck by lightning. She had never wanted anyone so badly.

Too much? Too soon? Good questions. If only she could gather the mental faculties needed to answer them. Everything began to speed up. Buffy’s hands were on her now, sliding, pulling, grabbing. Buffy’s mouth sucking, pressing kisses. Buffy’s teeth… Oh, god. Faith wasn’t just moaning, she was gasping. When had the blonde rolled on top? Thrown her leg over? Moved to straddle? Faith couldn’t form a sentence. Couldn’t find more than two words to express herself.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Shh…” A hot whisper against her ear, more grappling, more friction in the dark. “Leave him out of this.”

Faith rolled her hips so hard that Buffy had to clench her thighs around the brunette’s waist to keep herself upright. Which was the point, really. Faith flipped them. The breath caught in Buffy’s throat, eyes wide with fear and excitement, as she was thrown down onto the mattress. Years obsessing about it. Fantasizing about it. Denying it. Faith was a rubber band stretched to the point of breaking, ready to snap. She peeled the nightshirt from the blonde’s tiny body and flung it across the room. She cursed it. She wanted to burn it. She never wanted to see Buffy in clothes again. If only molecules weren’t so resolutely bonded to one another, so that she could melt into Buffy’s skin when she pressed their bodies together. She only wanted to fuse their souls together. Was that too much to ask? Small hands gripped her shoulder blades. Strong legs wrapped her up and pushed, pressed, squeezed.

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

Was that Buffy? Faith blinked and raised her eyes, tongue pausing mid-stroke over a hard, pink nipple. It took a second, but her brain caught up, and then processed. That wasn’t really a question she wanted to answer. Because the answer was, truthfully, in some form or fashion…

“Always.”

Buffy’s breath hitched.

“I’m sorry,” Faith mumbled.

It should have been shocking and creepy. She couldn’t think of any other way to twist it. Her lust ebbed, replaced by a tide of shame that threatened to drown them both, but just like always, Buffy held the key. Just like that moment on the rooftop, the knife, Angel, Faith’s plea to finish it, the turmoil on Buffy’s face as she held that blade, spurred on by Faith’s bitter supplications for an end to the fighting, a permanent end. An end to Faith. Back then, a young, desperate, conflicted Buffy had driven that knife into her abdomen and watched her plummet over the edge. Now, older, wiser, and sadder, Buffy possessed weapons subtler and more destructive than a knife, and, still, the key to all of this, to her. Faith felt like she was reliving that fall in slow motion, and only one person could catch her.

“Since…” Buffy swallowed. The moment teetered on a precipice. “Since that night?”

She was thinking about the Bronze. Faith’s eyes closed, and she offered a tiny nod of confirmation.

“Last night you said L.A..” Buffy reached up to touch her face, and it nearly broke Faith in half, the way those fingers curled around her cheek. “Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“Why did you-?”

Faith silenced her with a hard kiss, and Buffy responded in kind, pressing back with surprising force, surprising desperation.

“It took me a long time to realize what you meant to me,” Faith murmured, breaking away to linger on the blonde’s lips. “I was just a teenager, and it was easy to assume that all I craved was a quick roll in the sack. It was devastating to realize that I wanted you, that I had hurt you so much, and that you would never…” Faith bit her lip. “Never look at me that way. Not after everything that happened. I was just trying to move on. I was just trying to find something else, someone else, that would make me feel the way you do. Like I’m...crazy.”

“Definitely crazy,” Buffy agreed, breathlessly.

“Good crazy,” Faith continued. “Like I just did three lines of coke and I’m never coming down.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose again.

“Sorry…”

Strong hands pulled her down into a bruising kiss. A hot tongue slipped past her lips, and Faith felt immediately that more than her mouth had been invaded.

“I want you to show me,” Buffy said with burning eyes.

Faith’s breath hitched. “Show you…?”

“What I mean to you.”

The blonde grabbed her firmly, physically emphasizing her point, and Faith acquiesced to this. Buffy held her gaze as Faith’s fingers trailed down, tripping over a hip bone. She spread those strong legs further apart and let her fingers dip in, press in, to find how slick Buffy’s core had become. She tested her strength. She tested the angles and established a sense of direction, filling in a mental map of sensitive landmarks as she built up an eager rhythm. Muscles tensed and quivered. Quiet groans rang through the dark and filled the brunette with a new pressure. The rubber band was stretched again to the point of breaking, until she was barely holding herself back. When Buffy gasped a breathless, wordless directive, Faith sighed with relief and rushed to comply. She couldn’t resist. Her mind was not her own any longer. She penetrated with two fingers and found that Buffy was more than ready for her. She was hot and wet, and it felt so incredible that she wasn’t sure who was giving, who was receiving. It was devastating.

“God, Faith…” Buffy’s head lolled back against the sheets.

The brunette shivered and groaned. “Say it again.”

“Faith…”

She kissed Buffy hard and began to move. Slowly at first. She forced herself to go slowly. It was a challenge to maintain her rhythm. Too excited. Too focused. Like a laser. Focused on maximizing the sensation. She slid her arm under Buffy’s back and lifted her off the sheets, nearly into her lap, curling her fingers until the blonde cried out, lips breaking away, clasping both hands over her mouth as her head fell forward against Faith’s shoulder. And then all bets were off. The slayers clung to each other. Faith pumped faster, and harder, and Buffy’s body struggled to keep pace. Because the spirit was willing, but the flesh was hot, trembling, damp with sweat, fighting for a rhythm as she unraveled, like a spool of yarn unwound, piling haphazardly on the floor.

“I love you,” Faith said, words uttered breathlessly into blonde hair.

“I...I…” Buffy opened her mouth to swear it back, but she couldn’t catch her breath.

Her muscles seized. Her skin buzzed. Her stomach dropped. Buffy lurched forward, pressed her face into Faith’s chest, and shuddered until the tremors gave way to aftershocks, whimpering quietly as she came down. She was such a beautiful hot mess with her hair falling everywhere, sticky, sweaty skin, cheeks flushed. Faith lowered her onto the bed, and Buffy covered her eyes, palms pressing down into each socket, waited for her lungs to catch up. Faith untangled the sheet and covered them both.

And then she waited.

At length, Buffy stirred again, uncovering her eyes and heaving a sigh. She rolled into Faith’s side and pressed her hand into the brunette’s collarbone, letting her fingers splay out across flushed skin. She broke the silence tentatively.

“Wow.”

Faith smirked. “Glad you liked it.”

“It’s been at least a year.”

Buffy’s voice was husky and thick, breathless, as though she had run a mile just to deliver those words. Faith’s head lolled to the side and she suddenly found that their lips were quite close.

“That long?”

“Yeah,” Buffy snorted, laughing gently. “Or did you think I always come that fast?”

“Um…”

“‘Cause I don’t.”

“Sure.”

“It’s just been a long time. Has nothing to do with you or your...you know, you.”

Faith smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. “Okay.”

Buffy paused. “Which, I guess we probably shouldn’t have done that so soon. We haven’t really talked about anything, or worked things out...” She lifted her head suddenly. “Oh! What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“But aren’t you…?” the blonde gestured meaningfully at the juncture between Faith’s legs. “I’m sorry. I’m just used to guys. I’m bad at this whole l-le...gay thing.”

Faith smirked. “You can’t say ‘lesbian’?”

Buffy burrowed into the brunette’s dark, wavy hair and mumbled something indecipherable.

“It’s fine, B. I’m five by five.” Faith clenched her thighs together. “I don’t need anything right now.”

The other slayer’s response was too muffled to make out.

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘I can smell you’.”

“Oh.” Faith blushed and trailed off into embarrassed silence. “Slayer. Right.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you don’t have to do anything tonight.”

Buffy reached up very gently and traced Faith’s jaw, soft touch dropping to her chest like a bird swooping to a lower bough, curving around the brunette’s breast, squeezing until she felt the nipple hardening against her palm. Faith’s mouth hung open uselessly. Her muscles were coiled so tight that it actually hurt to breathe, or move, or be aware of anything at all, even the pounding between her legs. And Buffy’s energy was returning to her. She crawled up the brunette’s frozen body to brush her lips against a vulnerable earlobe.

“I want to.”

Faith shuddered. “Y-yeah?”

Buffy hummed and sucked the tip of Faith’s ear into her mouth.

A rash of goosebumps bubbled up on her naked skin. “You sure?” her voice sounded so tight, even to her own ears.

“Positive. Just...Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise you’ll stay.”

“...I promise.”

 

* * *

 

A buzzer blared on the tv, filling the living room, as the announcers segued seamlessly into commercials. Dawn unwrapped yet another peppermint chocolate, popping it into her mouth, and taking a moment to lick the sugar off her lips. She smiled faintly as chewed and leaned back into the couch. Her head lolled to to the side, eyes falling on a very comfortable, very relaxed brunette, tapping her fingers tonelessly against the bottle resting in her hand.

“Think they’ll win it this year?”

Faith gazed steadily at the bright screen. “Nah.”

“What? Even with King James?”

“Nah.”

“How can you say that? He’s like, the greatest basketball player of all time!”

“Um, first of all, Michael Fucking Jordan, you little heathen, and second of all, it takes a team to win a championship. Look at them! They’re not in sync.”

Dawn flicked a piece of popcorn at Faith’s head. “You’re just mad ‘cause the Celtics suck this year.”

Faith scoffed. “As a long-suffering Boston sports fan, I’m offended that you question my patience. We have a long season ahead of us.” She winked, set her empty bottle aside, and popped the lid on yet another beer as Dawn snickered into her soda. “Besides, the Browns still suck, and the Patriots are going back to the Super Bowl this year, so I’m not exactly upset.”

“Ohhh!” Dawn glanced at her phone. “Don’t let Brian hear you say that!”

“Whatever. I’m not afraid of your scrawny-ass boyfriend.”

“That’s not what I mean.” The youngest Summers gave her a long suffering look. “Last time he didn’t shut up about it for three days. Three days!” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “If I hear the words ‘Johnny Manziel’, or ‘rebuilding’ one more time I’m gonna scream.”

“Who’s screaming?” Buffy cruised into the living room wearing an apron and, presently, a light scowl as she took in the forest of empty beer bottles, candy wrappers, and soda cans on the old, wooden coffee table. “I see you two have been busy.”

Faith smirked and tipped the neck of her bottle toward the shiny new 50 inch LED 1080p TV. “The Cavs are on.”

“I assume that’s a sport.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Who let you near the kitchen, Buff? I thought you were banned?”

The blonde slayer bristled. “Willow asked for help rolling out the pie dough.”

“Oh, good. Just as long as there’s no heat involved.”

“Hey!”

“Yeah, Dawnie,” Faith chuckled. “Give your sister some credit. She can still ruin Willow’s cooking without heat.”

“Ugh, I hate both of you!”

“Aw, B…” Faith climbed off the plush leather couch with just a little difficulty and crossed the room. “Even me?” She wrapped Buffy up in a hug and pecked her on the cheek.  

“Especially you!” But her gaze had already softened, and she was trying not to laugh. “Giles is Skyping with Willow in the kitchen. He wants to talk to you.”

“Okay, babe.”

Faith kissed her gently on the lips and ambled into the kitchen. Buffy watched her go, and Dawn watched Buffy, quietly radiant in an obviously borrowed grey henley and loose jeans. Her hair was pulled back, and she had let the highlights grow out a little, leaving a touch of her original dirty blonde at the roots. There was more flour on the apron than there was makeup on her face, just a hint of mascara and lip gloss there catching the thin, December sunlight. She looked lighter and more beautiful than she had ever been, and it made Dawn’s eyes sting a little.

“Merry Christmas, Buffy.”

Buffy turned away from the doorway where her gaze had been lingering, and smiled. “Merry Christmas, Dawn.”

“Whatever Willow’s making smells amazing.”

“Chicken pot pie,” the blonde replied airily, gazing around at the tinsel and the lights, the scraps of wrapping paper still floating around on the Persian rug and under the tree.

She looked so happy. It didn’t seem to matter that they still had a host of orphaned, occult vampires to hunt down, Buffy stood like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. Dawn smiled, and something new bloomed in her chest. Something that felt an awful lot like pride. She picked up the remote and muted the TV.

“I’m proud of you,” Dawn said, speaking softly into the quiet living room. “You deserve this.”

Buffy opened her mouth to respond and hesitated. When she blinked again there were tears in her eyes. It was no use feigning ignorance.

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” she replied quietly, stuffing her hands into her apron pockets.

“What’s there to understand? You’re obviously really happy, and I’ve never seen you like this.” Dawn uncrossed her legs and stood from the couch. “Even with Angel you always looked sad.” She approached her sister slowly, kicking at bits of fallen candy and Santa Claus wrapping paper. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s really not that complicated at all.”

“Dawnie…”

Dawn shook her head, determined to go on. “I’m happy for both of you, and…” she smiled to herself, “I actually like Faith.”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped and it was like pulling the last string, watching the knot unravel. She fell into Dawn’s arms and wrapped her up in a tight hug.

“Thank you.”

The younger Summers giggled and added an extra squeeze. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Buffy sighed. “I know it’s weird, but I’m just so glad she’s here.”

“Love is weird.”

“God, yes it is.” They broke apart and Buffy sniffed. “Thanks anyway. For being cool about it.”

“What? About your apparently fluid sexual preferences?”

Buffy flushed.

“Hey, B!” Faith’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Giles has a question for ya!”

Dawn’s smirk was so wide it threatened to split her cheeks. “Go get her, tiger.”

Buffy squeezed her arm one last time, but her eyes were already straying towards the woman in the kitchen as she slipped away, disappearing around the corner without so much as a parting glance. Dawn gazed down at the flour smeared along her front and smiled.

The chosen two were back together again, the way it was always supposed to be.

 

Fin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Writers crave comments like vampires crave blood! Feed me, Seymour!
> 
> Also come chat with me on tumblr @ aschylusrex


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